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of  BRITISH 
POETRY- 1919 


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A  MISCELLANY  OF   BRITISH   POETRY 


A  MISCELLANY  OF 
BRITISH  POETRY'  1919 

Edited  by  W.  Kean  Seymour 

With  decorations  by  Doris  Palmer 


Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe 


All  British  and  American  rights  in 
the  poems  contained  in  this  book  are 
reserved  to  the  contributing  authors. 


I' 


To 
SIR  ARTHUR  QUILLER-COUCH 


c  •     «  c  «  « 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  Miscellany  oj  Poetry,  191 9,  is  issued  to  the  public 
as  a  truly  catholic  anthology  of  contemporary  poetry. 
The  poems  here  printed  are  new,  in  the  sense  that 
they  have  not  previously  been  issued  by  their  authors 
in  book  form— a  fact  which  surely  gives  the  Miscellany 
an  unique  place  among  modem  collections. 

My  deep  thanks  are  due  to  my  fellow-contributors  for 
their  generous  and  hearty  co-operation,  and  to  the 
editors  of  the  English  Review,  To-day,  Voices,  New 
Witness,  Observer,  Saturday  Westminster,  Art  and  Letters, 
Cambridge  Magazine  and  the  Nation  for  permission  to 
reprint  certain  poems. 

W.   K.   S. 

September,  19 19 


CONTENTS 

Page 
BiNYON,  Laurence — 

A  Song  ^ 

Commercial  ^ 

Numbers  ° 

The  Children  Dancing  ^ 

Branford,  F.  V. — 

Farewell  to  Mathematics  11 


Return 


13 


Over  the  Dead  ^^ 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  Keith — 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  Jo 

The  Ballad  of  St.  Barbara  1' 

Church,  Richard — 

Psyche  goes  forth  to  Life  ^o 

Davies,  William  H. — 

The  Villain  30 

Bird  and  Brook  ^l 

Passion's  Hounds  ^2 

The  Truth  |3 

The  Force  of  Love  34 

April's  Lambs  35 

Dearmer,  Geoffrey— 

Nous  Autres  3o 

She  to  Him  3S 

Drinkwater,  John — 

Malediction  J^ 

Spectral  ^^ 

Gibson,  Wilfred  Wilson — 
IN  war-time — 

L     Troopship  ^^ 

2.  The  Conscript  44 

3.  Air-Raid  f5 

4.  In  War- Time  46 

5.  Ragtime  46 

6.  Leave  47 

7.  Bacchanal  47 

iz 


Contents 


Page 
GoLDiNG,  Louis — 

Shepherd  Singing  Ragtime  49 

The  Singer  of  High  State  53 

Gould,  Gerald 

Freedoms  (Eight  Sonnets)  54 

HousMAN,  Laurence — 

Summer  Night  59 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard — 

The  Palaces  of  the  Rose  60 

Macaulay,  Rose — 

Peace,  June  28th,  1919  64 

Mason,  Eugene — 

Antony  and  Cleopatra  66 

Maynard,  Theodore — 

Dirge  68 

Desideravi  70 

Laus  Deo!  71 

Moore,  T.  Sturge — 

Aforetime  74 

Moult,  Thomas— 

Down  here  the  Hawthorn  90 

Invocation  94 

Nichols,  Robert — 

On  Seeing  a  Portrait  of  Blake  96 

Phillpotts,  Eden — 

The  Fall  98 

Ghosties  at  the  Wedding  99 

Sabin,  Arthur  K. — 

Four  Lyrics  100 

Sackville,  Lady  Margaret — 

The  Return  103 

To 104 


Contents  xi 

Page 

Seymour,  William  Kean — 

Fruitage  ..f. 

In  the  Wood  Jj]j' 

To  One  who  Eats  Larks  fj:? 

If  Beauty  came  to  you  ^^"^ 

Shipp,  Horace —  jj^ 


Prison 

The  Sixth  Day 


117 


SiTWELL,  Edith  ..r. 

Eventail  .       ,.     ,  •                                     110 

The  Lady  with  the  Sewmg-Machme  f  ^^ 

Portrait  of  a  Barmaid  J;^^ 

Solo  for  Ear-Trumpet  ^^'^ 

Stuart,  Muriel —  .„,- 

The  Father  \^i 

The  Shore  *;' 

Thfelus  Wood  \^° 

The  Thief  of  Beauty  ^•'^ 


TiTTERTON,   W.   R.—  ^,^ 

The  High  Wall  ]%2 

The  Broken  Sword  ;^* 

Night-Shapes  t^^ 

The  Silent  People  ^^' 

ViSIAK,     E.     H. ,^g 

Lamps  and  Lanterns  J^^ 

Stranded  ^*" 

Waugh,  Alec. —  ... 

Rubble  ^*^ 

Williams,  Charles —  .  .^ 

Christmas  ^^^ 


Briseis 


145 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

{This  list  includes  poetical  works  only). 

BiNYON,  Laurence. — Persephone  (1890);  Lyric  Poems  (1894); 
Poems  (1895);  Porphyrion  and  other  poems  (1898); 
The  Supper  (1897);  Odes  (1901);  Death  of  Adam  and 
other  poems  (1904);  Penthesilea  (1905)  ;  Dream  come 
true  (1905);  Paris  and  CEnone  (1906);  Attila,  a  tragedy 
(1907);  England  and  other  poems  (1909);  Auguries 
(1913);  The  Winnowing-fan  (1914);  Bombastes  in  the 
Shades,  a  play  (1915);  The  Anvil  and  other  poems  (1916); 
The  Cause:  poems  of  the  war  (1917);  For  the  Fallen  and 
other  poems  (1917);  The  New  World  (1918);  The  Four 
Years:     Collected  War  Poems  (1919). 

Chesterton,  G.  K.— Ballad  of  the  White  Horse  (1911);  The 
Wild  Knight  and  other  poems  (1914);  Poems  (1915); 
Wine,  Water  and  Song  (1915). 

Church,  Richard. — Flood  of  Life  and  other  poems  (1917); 
Hurricane  (1919). 

Davies,  W.  H.— New  Poems  (1907);  Nature  Poems  and  others 
(1908);  Farewell  to  Poesy  and  other  poems  (1910); 
Songs  of  Joy  and  Others  (1911);  Foliage  (1913);  Bird 
of  Paradise  and  other  poems  (1914);  Child  Lovers  and 
other  poems  (1916);  Collected  Poems  (1916);  Forty 
Poems  (1918). 

Drinkwater,  John. — Poems  (1903);  Death  of  Leander  and 
other  poems  (1906);  Lyrical  and  other  poems  (1908); 
Cophetua,  a  play  (1911);  Poems  of  Men  and  Hours 
(1911);  Poems  of  Love  and  Earth  (1912);  Cromwell  and 
other  poems  (1913);  Rebellion  (1914);  Swords  and 
Ploughshares  (1915);  Olton  Pools  and  other  poems 
(1916);  Pawns  (1917);  Poems  (1908-14)  (1917);  Tides 
(1917);  Abraham  Lincoln  (1918);  Loyalties  (1919). 

Gibson,  Wilfred  Wh^son.— Golden  Helm  (1903);  On  the 
Threshold  and  other  plays  (1907);  Stonefolds  (1907); 
Web  of  Life  (1908);  Akra  the  Slave  (1910);  Daily  Bread 
(1910);  Womenkind  (1912);  Fires  (1912);  Thorough- 
fares (1914);  Borderlands  (1914);  Battle  (1915);  Friends 
(1916);  LiveUhood  (1917). 


Xll 


Bibliography  xiii 


GoLDiNG,  Louis. — Sorrow  of  War  (1919). 

Gould,  Gerald.— Lyrics  (1906);  Poems  (1911);  My  Lady's 
Book  (1913);  Monogamy  (1918). 

HousMAN,  Laurence. — Mendicant  Rhymes  (1906);  Selected 
Poems  (1908);  The  Winners  (1915);  Heart  of  Peace 
(1918). 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard. — My  Ladies'  Sonnets  (1887);  R.L.S., 
An  Elegy  (1895);  Omar  Repentant  (1908);  Orestes 
(1910);  The  Lonely  Dancer  and  other  poems  (1914); 
The  Silk  Hat  Soldier  and  other  poems  (1915). 

Macaulay,  Rose.— The  Two  Blind  Countries  (1914);  Three 
Days  (1919). 

Mason,  Eugene. — Flamma  Vestalis  and  other  poems  (1890); 
The  Field  Floridus  and  other  poems  (1899);  Vitrail  and 
other  poems  (1916). 

Maynard,  Theodore. — Laughs  and  Whifts  of  Song  (1915) 
Drums  of  Defeat  (1917);  Folly  and  other  poems  (1918). 

Moore,  T.  Sturge. — The  Vinedresser  and  other  poems  (1899); 
Aphrodite  against  Artemis  (1901);  Absalom  (1903);  The 
Centaur's  Booty  (1903);  Danae  (1903);  Rout  of  the 
Amazons  (1903);  Pan's  Prophecy  (1904);  Theseus, 
Medea  and  Lyrics  (1904);  To  Leda  and  other  odes  (1904); 
The  Gazelles  and  other  poems  (1904);  A  Sicilian  Idyll 
and  Judith  (1911);  Mariamne  (1911);  Collected  Poems 
(1916). 

Nichols,  Robert. — Ardours  and  Endurances  (1917);  Invoca- 
tion (1919). 

Phillpotts,  Eden. — Up-Along  and  Down-Along  (1905);  Wild 
Fruit  (1911);  Demeter's  Daughter  (1911);  The  Iscariot 
(1912);  Delight  and  other  poems  (1916);  Plain  Song 
(1917). 

Sabin,  Arthur  K. — Typhon  and  other  poems  (1902);  Death 
of  Icarus  (1906);  The  Wayfarers  (1907);  Dant^  and 
Beatrice  (1908) ;  Medea  and  Circe  and  other  poems  (1911); 
New  Poems  (1914);  War  Harvest  (1914);  Five  Poems 
(1914);  Christmas,  1914. 


xlv  Bibliography 


Sackville,  Lady  Margaret. — Poems  (1901);  A  Hymn  to 
Dionysus  and  other  poems  (1905);  Hildris  the  Queen, 
a  play  (1908);  Lyrics  (1912);  Songs  of  Aphrodite  and 
other  poems  (1913);  Pageant  of  War  (1916). 

Seymour,  William  Kean. — Street  of  Dreams  (1914);  To 
Verhaeren  and  other  poems  (1917);  Twenty-four  Poems 
(1918);  Swords  and  Flutes  (1919). 

SiTWELL,  Edith. — The  Mother  and  other  poems  (1915);  Clowns' 
Houses  (1918);  (With  Osbert  Sitwell)  Twentieth  Century 
Harlequinade  and  other  poems. 

Stuart,  Muriel. — Christ  at  Carnival  and  other  poems  (1916); 
The  Cockpit  of  Idols  (1918). 

TiTTERTON,  W.  R. — River  Music  and  other  poems  (1900); 
Guns  and  Guitars  (1918). 

VisiAK,  E.  H. — Buccaneer  Ballads  (1910);  Flints  and  Flashes 
(1911);  The  Phantom  Ship  (1912);  Battle  Fiends  and 
other  poems  (1916);  Brief  Poems  (1919). 

Waugh,  Alec. — Resentment  (1918). 

Williams,  Charles. — The  Silver  Stair  (1912);  Poems  of  Con- 
formity (1917);  Divorce  {In  preparation). 


A  MISCELLANY  OF  BRITISH  POETRY 


A  SONG:      LAURENCE  BINYON 

For  Mercy,  Courage,  Kindness,  Mirth, 
There  is  no  measure  upon  earth. 
Nay,  they  wither,  root  and  stem, 
If  an  end  be  set  to  them. 


Overbrim  and  overflow. 
If  your  own  heart  you  would  know; 
For  the  spirit  born  to  bless 
Lives  but  in  its  own  excess. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


COMMERCIAL:     laueence  binyon 

Gross,  with  protruding  ears, 

Sleek  hair,  brisk  glance,  fleshy  and  yet  alert, 

Red,  full,  and  satisfied. 

Cased  in  obtuseness  confident  not  to  be  hurt, 

He  sits  at  a  little  table 

In  the  crowded  congenial  glare  and  noise,  jingling 

Coin  in  his  pocket;  sips 

His  glass,  with  hard  eye  impudently  singling 

A  woman  here  and  there: — 

Women  and  men,  they  are  all  priced  in  his  thought. 

All  commodities  staked 

In  the  market,  sooner  or  later  sold  and  bought. 

"Were  I  he,"  you  are  thinking. 

You  with  the  dreamer's  forehead  and  pure  eyes, 

"What  should  I  lose?— All, 

All  that  is  worthy  the  striving  for,  all  my  prize, 

"All  the  truth  of  me,  all 
Life  that  is  wonder,  pity,  and  fear,  requiring 
Utter  joy,  utter  pain, 

From  the  heart  that  the  infinite  hurts  with  deep 
desiring 


Laurence  Binyon 


"Why  is  it  I  am  not  he? 

Chance?    The  grace  of  God?    The  mystery's  plan? 

He,  too,  is  human  stuff, 

A  kneading  of  the  old,  brotherly  slime  of  man. 

"Am  I  a  lover  of  men, 

And  turn  abhorring  as  from  fat  slug  or  snake? 

Lives  obstinate  in  me  too 

Something  the  power  of  angels  could  not  unmake?" 

O  self-questioner!     None 

Unlocks  your  answer.    Steadily  look,  nor  flinch. 

This  belongs  to  your  kind. 

And  knows  its  aim  and  fails  not  itself  at  a  pinch. 

It  is  here  in  the  world  and  works, 

Not  done  with  yet. — Up,  then,  let  the  test  be  tried! 

Dare  your  uttermost,  be 

Completely,  and  of  your  own,  like  him,  be  justified. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


NUMBERS:     laurence  binyon 

Trefoil  and  Quatrefoil! 

What  shaped  those  destinied  small  silent  leaves 

Or  numbered  them  under  the  soil? 

I  lift  my  dazzled  sight 

From  grass  to  sky, 

From  humming  and  hot  perfume 

To  scorching,  quivering  light, 

Empty  blue! — Why, 

As  I  bury  my  face  afresh 

In  a  sunshot  vivid  gloom — 

Minute  infinity's  mesh, 

Where  spearing  side  by  side 

Smooth  stalk  and  furred  uplift 

Their  luminous  green  secrets  from  the  grass. 

Tower  to  a  bud  and  delicately  divide — 

Do  I  think  of  the  things  unthought 

Before  man  was? 

Bodiless  Numbers! 

When  there  was  none  to  explore 

Your  winding  labyrinths  occult, 

None  to  delve  your  ore 

Of  strange  virtue,  or  do 

Your  magical  business,  you 

Were  there,  never  old  nor  new, 


Laurence  Binyon 


Veined  in  the  world  and  alive: — 
Before  the  Planets,  Seven; 
Before  these  fingers,  Five! 

You  that  are  globed  and  single, 

Crystal  virgins,  and  you  that  part, 

Melt,  and  again  mingle! 

We  have  hoisted  sail  in  the  night 

On  the  oceans  that  you  chart: 

Dark  winds  carry  us  onward,  on; 

But  you  are  there  before  us,  silent  Answers, 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  the  sun. 

You  body  yourselves  in  the  stars,  inscrutable 

dancers, 
Native  where  we  are  none. 

O  inhuman  Numbers! 

All  things  change  and  glide, 

Corrupt  and  crumble,  suffer  wreck  and  decay, 

But,  obstinate  dark  Integrities,  you  abide, 

And  obey  but  them  who  obey. 

All  things  else  are  dyed 

In  the  colors  of  man's  desire: 

But  you  no  bribe  nor  prayer 

Avails  to  soften  or  sway. 

Nothing  of  me  you  share. 

Yet  I  cannot  think  you  away. 

And  if  I  seek  to  escape  you,  still  you  are  there 

Stronger  than  caging  pillars  of  iron 

Not  to  be  passed,  in  an  air 

Where  human  wish  and  word 

Fall  like  a  frozen  bird. 


8  Laurence  Binyon 

Music  asleep 

In  pulses  of  sound,  in  the  wavesl 

Hidden  runes  rubbed  bright! 

Dizzy  ladders  of  thought  in  the  night  1 

Are  you  masters  or  slaves — 

Subtlest  of  man's  slaves, — 

Shadowy  Numbers? 

In  a  vision  I  saw 

Old  vulture  Time,  feeding 

On  the  flesh  of  the  world;  I  saw 

The  home  of  our  use  undated — 

Seasons  of  fruiting  and  seeding 

Withered,  and  hunger  and  thirst 

Dead,  with  all  they  fed  on: 

Till  at  last,  when  Time  was  sated, 

Only  you  persisted, 

Daedal  Numbers,  sole  and  same, 

Invisible  skeleton  frame 

Of  the  peopled  earth  we  tread  on — 

Last,  as  first. 

Because  naught  can  avail 
To  wound  or  to  tarnish  you; 
Because  you  are  neither  sold  nor  bought. 
Because  you  have  not  the  power  to  fail 
But  live  beyond  our  furthest  thought. 
Strange  Numbers,  of  infinite  clue. 
Beyond  fear,  beyond  ruth. 
You  strengthen  also  me 
To  be  in  my  own  truth. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


DREN  DANCING:     Laurence  bin  yon 

Away,  sad  thoughts,  and  teasing 
Perplexities,  away! 
Let  other  blood  go  freezing. 
We  will  be  wise  and  gay; 
For  here  is  all  heart-easing, 
An  ecstasy  at  play! 

The  children  dancing,  dancing. 
Light  upon  happy  feet, 
Both  eye  and  heart  entrancing, 
Mingle,  escape,  and  meet. 
Come  joyous-eyed  advancing 
And  floatingly  retreat. 

Now  slow,  now  swifter  treading 
Their  paces  timed  and  true. 
An  instant  poised,  then  threading 
A  maze  of  printless  clue, 
The  music  smoothly  wedding 
To  motions  ever  new. 

They  launch  in  chime,  and  scatter 
In  looping  ripples;   they 
Are  Music's  airy  matter, 


lO  Laurence  Binyon 

And  their  feet  move,  the  way 
The  raindrops  shine  and  patter 
On  tossing  flowers  in  May. 

As  if  those  flowers  were  singing 
For  joy  of  the  bright  air, 
As  if  you  saw  them  springing 
To  dance  the  breeze — so  fair 
The  lissom  bodies  swinging, 
So  light  the  flimg-back  hair. 

And  through  the  mind  enchanted 
A  happy  river  goes, 
By  its  own  young  carol  haunted 
And  bringing,  where  it  flows, 
What  all  the  world  has  wanted 
But  who  in  this  world  knows? 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  li 


FAREWELL  TO  MATHEMATICS:    f.  v.  branford 

I  LABORED  on  the  anvil  of  my  brain 
And  beat  a  metal  out  of  pageantry. 
Figure  and  form  I  carry  in  my  train 
To  load  the  scaffolds  of  Eternity. 
Where  the  masters  are 
Building  star  on  star; 
Where,  in  solemn  ritual, 
The  great  Dead  Mathematical 
Wait  and  wait  and  wait  for  me. 

To  the  deliberate  presence  of  the  Sun 
(Bright  cynosure  of  every  darkling  sign, 
Wherein  all  numbers  consummate  in  One,) 
Poised  on  the  bolt  of  an  Un-finite  line. 
As  one  whose  spirit's  state. 
Is  unafraid  but  desperate, 
Through  far  unfathomed  fears, 
Through  Time  to  timeless  years, 
I  soar,  through  Shade  to  Shine. 

They  say  that  on  a  night  there  came  to  Euler, 
As  eager-eyed  he  stared  upon  a  star. 
And  fought  the  far  infinitude,  a  toiler 
Like  to  himself  and  me,  for  things  that  are 
Buried  from  the  eyes  alone 


12  F.  V.  Bran  ford 

Of  men  whose  sight  is  made  of  stone, 

And  led  him  out  in  ecstasy, 

Over  the  dim  boundary 

By  the  pale  gleam  of  a  scimitar. 

Then  Euler,  mindful  of  thy  lesser  need, 
Be  thou  my  pilot  in  this  treacherous  hour, 
That  I  be  less  unworth  thy  greater  meed, 
O  my  strong  brother  in  the  halls  of  power; 
For  here  and  hence  I  sail 
Alone  beyond  the  pale. 
Where  square  and  circle  coincide. 
And  the  parallels  collide. 
And  perfect  pyramids  flower. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  13 


RETURN:    f.  v.  branford 

The  hearts  of  the  mountains  were  void, 

The  sea  spake  foreign  tongues, 

From  the  speed  of  the  wind  I  gat  me  no  breath, 

And  the  temples  of  Time  were  as  sepulchers. 

I  walked  about  the  world  in  the  midnight, 

I  stood  under  water,  and  over  stars, 

I  cast  Life  from  me, 

I  handled  Death, 

I  walked  naked  into  lightning, 

I  had  so  great  a  thirst  for  God. 

•  ••••• 

The  heart  of  the  Mountain  overfloweth, 

The  sea  speaketh  clear  words. 

The  Ark  is  brought  to  the  Tabernacle. 

Lightnings,  that  withered  in  the  sky, 

Are  become  great  beacons  roaring  in  a  wind. 

I  see  Death,  lying  in  the  arms  of  Life, 

And,  in  the  womb  of  Death,  I  see  Joy. 

I  had  said  "The  spirit  of  the  Earth  is  white," 

But  lo!     He  is  red  with  joy. 

He  devoureth  the  meat  of  many  nations, 

He  absorbeth  a  vintage  of  scarlet. 

Though  my  head  be  with  the  stars. 

All  the  flowers  of  Earth  are  singing  in  mine  ears. 


14  F.  V.  Br  an  ford 

Though  my  foot  be  planted  on  the  sea-bed. 

Yet  is  it  shod  with  the  thunder. 

Sorrow  for  Earth  Transient  is  passed  away. 

Pain  of  martyr'd  splendor  is  no  more. 

They  have  left  a  fair  child  in  my  lap — 

A  lusty  infant  shouting  to  the  dawn. 

The  Ogre  of  midnight  hath  perished. 

He  shivered  in  the  glare  of  the  mountain, 

He  screamed  upon  the  sea-swords, 

His  bowels  rushed  out  upon  the  lances  of  the 

Wind. 
I  shall  look  through  the  eye  of  Mountain, 
I  shall  set  in  my  scabbard  the  saber  of  Sea, 
And  the  spear  of  Wind  shall  be  my  hand's 

delight. 
I  shall  not  descend  from  the  Hill. 
Never  go  down  to  the  Valley; 

For  I  see,  on  a  snow-crowned  peak, 

The  glory  of  the  Lord, 

Erect  as  Orion, 

Belted  as  to  his  blade. 
But  the  roots  of  the  mountains  mingle  with  mist, 
And  raving  skeletons  run  thereon. 

I  shall  not  go  hence. 

For  here  is  my  Priest, 
Who  hath  broken  me  in  the  waters  of  Disdain. 

Here  is  my  Jester, 
Who  hath  mended  me  on  the  wheels  of  Mirth. 

Here  is  my  Champion, 
Who  hath  confounded  mine  ancient  Enemy 

Ardgay — the  slayer  of  Giants. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  15 


OVER  THE  DEAD:     f.  v.  branfoed 

Who  in  the  splendor  of  a  simple  thought, 
Whether  for  England  or  her  enemies, 
Went  in  the  night,  and  in  the  morning  died; 
Each  bleeding  piece  of  human  earth  that  lies 
Stark  to  the  carion  wind,  and  groaning  cries 
For  burial — each  Jesu  crucified — 
Hath  surely  won  the  thing  he  dearly  bought, 
For  wrong  is  right,  when  wrong  is  greatly  wrought. 

Yet  is  the  Nazarene  no  thigh  of  Thor, 

To  play  on  partial  fields  the  puppet  king 

Bearing  the  battle  down  with  bloody  hand. 

Serene  he  towers  above  the  gods  of  war, 

A  naked  man  where  shells  go  thundering — 

The  great  unchallenged  Lord  of  No-Man's  Land. 


i6 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


ELEGY  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD: 

KEITH   CHESTERTON 

The  men  that  worked  for  England 
They  have  their  graves  at  home; 
And  bees  and  birds  of  England 
About  the  cross  can  roam. 

But  they  that  fought  for  England, 
Following  a  falling  star, 
Alas,  alas,  for  England 
They  have  their  graves  afar. 

And  they  that  rule  in  England 
In  stately  conclave  met, 
Alas,  alas,  for  England, 
They  have  no  graves  as  yet. 


GILBERT 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  ij 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ST.  BARBARA:     gilbert  keith 

CHESTERTON 

(St.  Barbara  is  the  patroness  of  artillery,  and  of  those 
who  are  in  fear  of  sudden  death.) 

When  the  long  gray  lines  came  flooding  upon  Paris  in 

the  plain, 
We  stood  and  drank  of  the  last  free  air  we  never  could 

love  again; 
They  had  led  us  back  from  a  lost  battle,  to  halt  we  knew 

not  where. 
And  stilled  us;   and  our  gaping  guns  were  dumb  with 

our  despair. 
The  gray  tribes  flowed  for  ever  from  the  infinite  lifeless 

lands, 
And  a  Norman  to  a  Breton  spoke,  his  chin  upon  his 

hands: 

''There  was  an  end  to  Ilium;  and  an  end  came  to  Rome; 
And  a  man  plays  on  a  painted  stage  in  the  land  that  he 

calls  home. 
Arch  after  arch  of  triumph,  but  floor  beyond  falling  floor, 
That  lead  to  a  low  door  at  last:  and  beyond  there  is  no 

door." 


1 8  Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton 

The  Breton  to  the  Norman  spoke,  like  a  little  child 

spake  he, 
But  his  sea-blue  eyes  were  empty  as  his  home  beside  the 

sea: 
''There  are  more  windows  in  one  house  than  there  are 

eyes  to  see; 
There  are  more  doors  in  a  man's  house,  but  God  has  hid 

the  key; 
Ruin  is  a  builder  of  windows ;  her  legend  witnesseth 
Barbara,  the  saint  of  gunners,  and  a  stay  in  sudden 

death." 

It  seemed  the  wheel  of  the  worlds  stood  still  an  instant 
in  its  turning. 
More  than  the  kings  of  the  earth  that  turned  with 
the  turning  of  Valmy  mill. 
While  trickled  the  idle  tale  and  the  sea-blue  eyes  were 
burning, 
Still  as  the  heart  of  a  whirlwind,  the  heart  of  the 
world  stood  still. 

"Barbara  the  beautiful  had  praise  of  lute  and  pen. 
Her  hair  was  like  a  summer  night,  dark  and  desired  of 

men, 
Her  feet  like  birds  from  far  away  that  linger  and  light  in 

doubt. 
And  her  face  was  like  a  window  where  a  man's  first  love 

looked  out. 


Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton  19 

"Her  sire  was  master  of  many  slaves,  a  hard  man  of  his 

hands; 
They  built  a  tower  about  her  in  the  desolate  golden  lands, 
Sealed  as  the  tyrants  sealed  their  tombs,  planned  with 

an  ancient  plan, 
And  set  two  windows  in  the  tower,  like  the  two  eyes  of  a 

man." 

Our  guns  were  set  towards  the  foe;  we  had  no  word 
for  firing; 
Gray  in  the  gateways  of  St.  Gond  the  Guard  of  the 
tyrant  shone; 
Dark  with  the  fate  of  a  falling  star,  retiring  and  re- 
tiring. 
The  Breton  line  went  backwards  and  the  Breton 
tale  went  on, 

"Her  father  had  sailed  across  the  sea  from  the  harbor 
of  Africa, 

When  all  the  slaves  took  up  their  tools  for  the  bidding  of 
Barbara; 

She  smote  the  bare  wall  with  her  hand,  and  bade  them 
smite  again, 

She  poured  them  wealth  of  wine  and  meat  to  stay  them 
in  their  pain. 

And  cried  through  the  lifted  thunder  of  thronging  ham- 
mer and  hod: 

'Throw  open  the  third  window  in  the  third  name  of  God  I' 

Then  the  hearts  failed  and  the  tools  fell ;  and  far  towards 
the  foam 


20  Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton 

Men  saw  a  shadow  on  the  sands;  and  her  father  coming 
home." 

Speak  low  and  low,  along  the  line  the  whispered  word 
is  flying, 
Before  the  touch,  before  the  time,  we  may  not  lose 
a  breath. 
Their  guns  must  mash  us  to  the  mire  and  there  be  no 
replying 
Till  the  hand  is  raised  to  fling  us  for  the  final  dice  to 
Death. 

"  'There   were   two   windows   in   your   tower,    Barbara, 

Barbara, 
For  all  between  the  sun  and  moon  in  the  lands  of  Africa. 
Hath  a  man  three  eyes,  Barbara,  a  bird  three  wings. 
That  you  have  riven  roof  and  wall  to  look  upon  vain 

things?' 
Her  voice  was  like  a  wandering  thing  that  falters,  yet  is 

free, 
Whose  soul  has  drunk  in  a  distant  land  of  the  rivers  of 

liberty. 
There  are  more  wings  than  the  wind  knows,  or  eyes 

than  see  the  sun, 
In  the  light  of  the  lost  window  and  the  wind  of  the  doors 

undone ; 
For  out  of  the  first  lattice  are  the  red  lands  that  break 
And  out  of  the  second  lattice,  sea  like  a  green  snake, 
But  out  of  the  third  lattice,  under  low  eaves  like  wings 
Is  a  new  corner  of  the  sky  and  the  other  side  of  things.'  " 


Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton  21 

It  opened  in  the  inmost  place  an  instant  beyond  ut- 
tering, 
A  casement  and  a  chasm  and  a  thunder  of  doors 
undone, 
A  seraph's  strong  wing  shaken  out  the  shock  of  its 
unshuttering 
That  split  the  shattered  sunlight  from  a  light  behind 
the  sun. 

"Then  he  drew  sword  and  drave  her  where  the  judges 

sat  and  said: 
'Caesar  sits  above  the  Gods,  Barbara  the  maid, 
Caesar  hath  made  a  treaty  with  the  moon  and  with  the 

sun 
All  the  gods  that  men  can  praise,  praise  him  every  one. 
There  is  peace  with  the  anointed  of  the  scarlet  oils  of  Bel, 
With  the  Fish  God,  where  the  whirlpool  is  a  winding  stair 

to  hell, 
With  the  pathless  pyramids  of  slime,  where  the  mitered 

negro  lifts 
To  his  black  cherub  in  the  cloud  abominable  gifts. 
With  the  leprous  silver  cities  where  the  dumb  priests 

dance  and  nod. 
But  not  with  the  three  windows  and  the  last  name  of 

God.'  " 

They  are  firing,  we  are  falling,  and  the  red  skies  rend 

and  shiver  us  .  .  . 
Barbara,  Barbara,  we  may  not  loose  a  breath — 
Be  at  the  bursting  doors  of  doom,  and  in  the  dark 

deliver  us, 


22  Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton 

Who  loosen  the  last  window  on  the  sun  of  sudden 

death. 

"Barbara,  the  beautiful,  stood  up  as  a  queen  set  free. 
Whose  mouth  is  set  to  a  terrible  cup  and  the  trumpet  of 

liberty ; 
'I  have  looked  forth  from  a  window  that  no  man  now 

shall  bar, 
Caesar's  toppling  battle  towers  shall  never  stretch  so  far; 
The  slaves  are  dancing  in  their  chains,  the  child  laughs 

at  the  rod. 
Because  of  the  bird  of  the  three  wings,  and  the  third 

face  of  God.' 
The  sword  upon  his  shoulder  shifted  and  shone  and  fell, 
And  Barbara  lay  very  small  and  crumpled  like  a  shell." 

What  wall  upon  what  hinges  turned  stands  open  like 
a  door? 
Too  simple  for  the  sight  of  faith,  too  huge  for  human 
eyes. 
What  light  upon  what  ancient  way  shines  to  a  far  off 
floor. 
The  line  of  the  lost  land  of  France  or  the  plains  of 
Paradise? 

"Caesar  smiled  above  the  gods,  his  lip  of  stone  was  curled. 
His  iron  armies  wound  like  chains  round  and  round  the 

world. 
And  the  strong  slayer  of  his  own  that  cut  down  flesh  for 

grass, 


Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton  23 

Smiled,  too,  and  went  to  his  own  tower  like  a  walking 

tower  of  brass, 
And  the  songs  ceased  and  the  slaves  were  dumb:   and 

far  towards  the  foam 
Men  saw  a  shadow  on  the  sands;  and  her  father  coming 

home.  ... 

"Blood  of  his  blood  upon  the  sword  stood  red  but  never 

dry, 
He  wiped  it  slowly,  till  the  blade  was  blue  as  the  blue 

sky: 
But  the  blue  sky  split  with  a  thunder-crack,  spat  down 

a  blinding  brand. 
And  all  of  him  lay  back  and  fiat  as  his  shadow  on  the 

sand." 

The  touch  and  the  tornado;  all  our  guns  give  tongue 
together, 
St.  Barbara  for  the  gunnery  and  God  defend  the 
right — 
They  are  stopped   and  gapped   and  battered   as  we 
blast  away  the  weather, 
Building  window  upon  window  to  our  lady  of  the 
light; 
For  the  light  is  come  on  Liberty,  her  foes  are  falling, 
falling. 
They  are  reeling,  they  are  running,  as  the  shameful 
years  have  run, 
She  is  risen  for  all  the  humble,'  she  has  heard  the  con- 
quered calling. 


24  Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton 

St.  Barbara  of  the  Gunners,  with  her  hand  upon  the 

gun. 
They  are  burst  asunder  in  the  midst  that  eat  of  their 

own  flatteries, 
Whose  lip  is  curled  to  order  as  its  barbered  hair  is 

curled  .  .  . 
— Blast  of  the  beauty  of  sudden  death,  St.  Barbara 

of  the  batteries! 
That  blow  the  new  white  window  in  the  wall  of  all 

the  world. 

For  the  hand  is  raised  behind  us,  and  the  bolt  smites  hard 
Through  the  rending  of  the  doorways,  through  the  death- 
gap  of  the  Guard, 
For  the  shout  of  the  Three  Colors  is  in  Conde  and 

beyond, 
And  the  Guard  is  flung  for  carrion  in  the  graveyard  of 

St.  Gond; 
Through  Mondemont  and  out  of  it,  through  Morin  marsh 

and  on, 
With  earthquake  of  salutation  the  impossible  thing  is 

gone; 
Gaul,  charioted  and  charging,  great  Gaul  upon  a  gun, 
Tiptoe  on  all  her  thousand  years,  and  trumpeting  to  the 

sun. 
As  day  returns,  as  death  returns,  swung  backward  for  a 

span. 
Back  on  the  barbarous  reign  returns  the  battering-ram 

of  Man. 


Gilbert  Keith   Chesterton  25 

While  that  the  east  held  hard  and  hot  like  pincers  in  a 

forge, 
Came  like  the  west  wind  roaring  up  the  cannon  of  St. 

George, 
Where  the  hunt  is  up  and  racing  over  stream  and  swamp 

and  tarn. 
And  their  batteries,  black  with  battle,  hold  the  bridge- 
heads of  the  Marne; 
And  across  the  carnage  of  the  Guard  by  Paris  in  the  plain 
The  Normans  to  the  Bretons  cried;    and  the  Bretons 

cheered  again; 
But  he  that  told  the  tale  went  home  to  his  house  beside 

the  sea 
And  burned  before  St.  Barbara,  the  light  of  the  windows 

three. 
Three  candles  for  an  unknown  thing,  never  to  come  again. 
That  opened  like  the  eye  of  God  on  Paris  in  the  plain. 


26  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


PSYCHE  GOES  FORTH  TO  LIFE:    richard  church 

What  are  these  tears  of  loneliness  to-night? 
Hark!     In  my  neighbor's  house  the  music  swells, 
Joins  with  the  wind  and  fills  the  empty  skies 
And  dies  away,  like  echo  of  old  age 
Sighing  and  dying  in  the  heart  that  fails. 
Ah!  the  cruel  beauty  .  .  .  how  it  creeps 
Into  my  home,  into  my  waiting  heart! 
Who  am  I  that  I  wait  to-night?  .  .  .  Alas, 
Where  is  the  old  content  of  maidenhood, 
The  calmness  and  the  laughter  and  the  song. 
The  patient  hands  unshaken  as  the  needle 
Plied  to  the  gentle  rhythm  that  my  lips 
Murmured,  untroubled  girlhood  at  their  brink? 

Was  that  but  yesterday?  .  .  .  How  long  ago, 
How  the  swift  moments  flow  along  the  flood. 
For  yesterday  was  sweet  indifference; 
These  little  drooping  breasts  had  never  known 
This  pain  that  swells  them  out  and  makes  them  ache 
For  Love  to  touch  them,  for  the  nestling  lips 
To  trouble  them  as  a  warm  lifting  wind 
Murmurs  between  two  swelled  and  ripening  grapes 
Whispering  of  future  wines  of  mad  delight. 


Richard  Church  27 


Ah,  let  me  learn  of  this!     A  rapture  fills 

My  limbs,  and  in  my  womb  there  stirs  a  craving 

For  life  .  .  .  life!     Oh,  wonderful,  the  vision  that 

glows 
About  me  in  such  radiance,  the  light,  the  strife 
Of  music,  hue  and  perfume  of  the  rose. 
Oh  garden  of  desire,  where  one  awaits 
My  coming  with  the  sudden  knowledge  glowing 
Deep  in  my  eyes,  made  somber  as  the  day 
Is  somber  in  the  summer  noon  of  light. 
Now  I  perceive  I  am  a  sacred  temple 
Long  closed  about  the  hidden  flame  of  life. 
Closed  with  white  ivories  and  gliding  shapes 
Of  river  waves,  and  waves  upon  the  sea 
Rising  and  gliding.     Every  magic  curve 
Of  these  unheeded  arms,  this  supple  waist — 
So  are  my  eyes  set  on  the  infinite — 
Are  ministering  music  unto  life 
Calling  love  forth  to  worship  in  my  shrine, 
To  fill  this  temple  with  the  prophecy 
Of  further,  wider,  deeper  life  to  come. 

Hark!     The  music  of  the  night  is  rising  up! 
My  neighbor's  house  is  all  a  flame  of  song. 
I  must  abide  until  the  prelude  closes. 
Until  his  heart  has  ceased  its  preparation 
And  he  comes  forth  into  the  dying  year. 
Leaves  his  house  of  inspiration  empty. 
And  with  a  loneliness  of  heart  creeps  forth 
Eagerly  into  the  night,  and  gropes  his  way 
With  outstretched  nerveless  hands  unto  my  home, 


28  Richard  Church 

Where  I  wait,  alone!     I  hear  his  lips 
Murmur  again,  and  moan,  and  murmur  again 
Tones  of  the  broken  prelude,  vainly  trying 
To  call  me  forth,  who  am  waiting  in  my  home. 
Waiting  in  sweet  imprisonment,  the  bonds 
Of  love  restraining  me  from  running  forth 
To  greet  him  and  to  lead  him  to  my  soul. 

Oh  the  swift  pain,  the  agony  of  waiting, 
Galled  with  these  terrible  sweet  bonds  of  love 
That  will  not  let  me  rise,  though  my  cold  hands 
Are  wrung  with  grief  ...  for  do  I  not  behold 
Upon  the  outer  night  the  rising  fire. 
The  danger  and  the  terror  of  love's  flight; 
Do  I  not  know  my  lover;  that  his  eyes 
Are  blinded  by  this  madness  of  the  skies. 
Do  I  not  hear  him  moaning  in  the  night 
For  one  to  lead  him  to  his  waiting  love. 
To  lead  him  to  the  temple  of  delight, 
To  the  white  ivory  casket  where  his  soul 
Is  set  with  lovely  secrets?     Do  I  not  hear 
The  little  echoes  roll,  and  fade,  and  fret 
About  the  murmuring  foliage  of  the  garden 
Wherein  the  temple  lies?    Do  I  not  fear 
Lest  in  the  outer  glories  he  be  lost 
And  thwarted  of  his  heart's  desire,  that  flies 
Like  a  dove  before  his  coming,  and  alights 
Within  the  inner  courtyard  of  my  soul 
Bearing  such  messages  of  him  who  comes 
That  all  the  altars  of  my  love  are  kindled 
To  flame  ere  he  approaches,  which  fades  away 


Richard   Church  29 

And  counterfeits  the  sweetest  death  that  ever 
Sighed  the  approach  of  day,  and  left  the  stars 
More  bright  to  be  entranced  of  the  dawn? 

Be  patient,  Oh,  my  heart!     A  Httle  while 
And  he  shall  pierce  the  darkness  of  the  night 
That  flows  between  my  home  and  his.    The  song 
The  youth,  the  early  light  that  he  has  lost 
Are  as  a  little  strength  submerged  and  drowned 
In  this  fierce  rage  that  bids  him  seek  me  out 
And  take  me  in  the  darkness  of  my  home, 
And  change,  and  fill  me,  as  the  virgin  night 
Is  changed  to  day,  and  as  the  moonlight  sky 
Is  emptied  of  her  sterile  ray,  and  filled 
With  overflooding  light  that  spills  to  earth 
A  golden  augury  of  later  fruits 
And  a  diviner  birth. 

Hark!    Hark!   ...  He  comes 
He  has  found  the  temple  of  his  soul's  desire  .  .  . 
Be  still.  Oh  beating  heart,  be  still  ...  be  still. 
Lest  he  be  troubled  now  his  sacred  fire 
Creeps  through  this  temple  to  your  inmost  shrine. 
And  I  at  last  am  his,  and  he  is  mine! 


30  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  VILLAIN:     william  h,  davies 

While  joy  gave  clouds  the  light  of  stars, 

That  beamed  where'er  they  looked; 
And  calves  and  lambs  had  tottering  knees, 

Excited,  while  they  sucked; 
While  every  bird  enjoyed  his  song, 
Without  one  thought  of  harm  or  wrong — 
I  turned  my  head  and  saw  the  wind, 

Not  far  from  where  I  stood. 
Dragging  the  corn  by  her  golden  hair, 

Into  a  dark  and  lonely  wood. 


#fc^  *-^  ^^ 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  31 


BIRD  AND  BROOK:    william  h.  davies 

My  song,  that's  bird-like  in  its  kind, 
Is  in  the  mind, 
Love — in  the  mind; 
And  in  my  season  I  am  moved 
No  more  or  less  from  being  loved; 
No  woman's  love  has  power  to  bring 
My  song  back  when  I  cease  to  sing; 
Nor  can  she,  when  my  season's  strong. 
Prevent  my  mind  from  song. 

But  where  T  feel  your  woman's  part. 
Is  in  the  heart, 
Love — in  the  heart; 

For  when  that  bird  of  mine  broods  long, 
And  I'd  be  sad  without  my  song, 
Your  love  then  makes  my  heart  a  brook 
That  dreams  in  many  a  quiet  nook. 
And  makes  a  steady,  murmuring  sound 
Of  joy  the  whole  year  round. 


32  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


PASSION'S  HOUNDS:     william  h.  davies 

With  mighty  leaps  and  bounds, 
I  followed  Passion's  hounds, 

My  hot  blood  had  its  day; 
Lust,  Gluttony,  and  Drink, 
I  chased  to  Hell's  black  brink. 

Both  night  and  day. 

I  ate  like  three  strong  men, 
I  drank  enough  for  ten, 

Each  hour  must  have  its  glass: 
Yes,  Drink  and  Gluttony 
Have  starved  more  brains,  say  I, 

Than  Hunger  has. 

And  now,  when  I  grow  old. 
And  my  slow  blood  is  cold. 

And  feeble  is  my  breath — 
I'm  followed  by  those  hounds. 
Whose  mighty  leaps  and  bounds 

Hunt  me  to  death. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  33 


THE  TRUTH:     william  h.  da  vies 

Since  I  have  seen  a  bird  one  day, 
His  head  pecked  more  than  half  away; 
That  hopped  about,  with  but  one  eye, 
Ready  to  fight  again,  and  die — 
Ofttimes  since  then  their  private  lives 
Have  spoilt  that  joy  their  music  gives. 

So,  when  I  see  this  robin  now, 
Like  a  red  apple  on  the  bough. 
And  question  why  he  sings  so  strong. 
For  love,  or  for  the  love  of  song; 
Or  sings,  maybe,  for  that  sweet  rill 
Whose  silver  tongue  is  never  still — 

Ah,  now  there  comes  this  thought  unkind. 
Born  of  the  knowledge  in  my  mind: 
He  sings  in  triumph  that  last  night 
He  killed  his  father  in  a  fight; 
And  now  he'll  take  his  mother's  blood — 
The  last  strong  rival  for  his  food. 


34  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  FORCE  OF  LOVE:     william  h.  davies 

Have  I  now  found  an  angel  in  Unrest, 

That  wakeful  Love  is  more  desired  than  sleep: 

Though  you  seem  calm  and  gentle,  you  shall  show 
The  force  of  this  strong  love  in  me  so  deep. 

Yes,  I  will  make  you,  though  you  seem  so  calm, 
Look  from  your  blue  eyes  that  divinest  joy 

As  was  in  Juno's,  when  she  made  great  Jove 
Forget  the  war  and  half  his  heaven  in  Troy. 

And  I  will  press  your  lips  until  they  mix 
With  my  poor  quality  their  richer  wine: 

Be  my  Parnassus  now,  and  grow  more  green 
Each  upward  step  towards  your  top  divine. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


35 


APRIL'S  LAMBS:     william  h.  davies 

Though  I  was  born  in  April's  prime 
With  many  another  lamb, 

Yet,  thinking  now  of  all  my  years, 
What  am  I  but  a  tough  old  ram? 


"No  woman  thinks  of  years,"  said  she, 

''Or  any  tough  old  rams. 
When  she  can  hear  a  voice  that  bleats 

As  tenderly  as  any  lamb's." 


36  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


NOUS  AUTRES:     geoffrey  dearmer 

We  never  feel  the  lust  of  steel 

Or  fury-woken  blood, 

We  live  and  die  and  wonder  why 

In  mud,  and  mud,  and  mud, 

And  horror  first  and  horror  last 

And  Phantom  Terror  riding  past. 

We  hear  and  hear  the  hounds  of  Fear 

Nearer  and  more  near. 

We  feel  their  breath.  .  .  . 

Only  the  nights  befriend 

And  mitigate  the  hell 

Of  those  who  ponder,  see  and  hear, 

Too  well. 

The  nights,  and  Death — 

The  end. 

We  feel  but  never  fear 

His  breath. 

Day  after  weary  day. 
In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain. 
We  turn  to  Thee  and  pray, 
We  cry  and  cry  again — 
*'0  lord  of  Battle,  why 
Should  we  alone  be  sane?" 

We  stifle  cries  with  lightless  eyes 
And  face  eternal  night; 


Geoffrey  Dearmer  37 

We  stifle  cries  to  sacrifice 

Our  eyes  for  Human  Sight. 

And  many  give  that  men  may  live, 

A  life,  a  limb,  a  brain, 

That  fellow  men  may  understand 

And  be  for  ever  sane. 

What  matter  if  we  lose  a  hand 

If  others  wander  hand  in  hand; 

Or  lose  a  foot  if  others  greet 

The  dawn  of  peace  with  dancing  feet, 

What  matter  if  we  die  unheard 

If  others  hear  the  Poet's  Word? 

Because  we  pay  from  day  to  day 

The  price  of  sacrifice; 

Because  we  face  each  dreary  place 

Again,  again,  again. 

Lord,  set  us  free  from  Sanity — 

Who  feel  no  fighting  thrill; 

Must  we  remain  for  ever  sane 

And  never  learn  to  kill? 

No  answer  came.    In  very  shame 

Our  long-unheeded  cry 

Grew  bitterly  more  bitterly, 

"O  why,  O  why,  O  why, 

May  we  not  feel  the  lust  of  steel 

The  fury-woken  thrill — 

For  men  may  learn  to  live  and  die 

And  never  learn  to  kill?" 

October,  igi8. 


38  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


SHE  TO  HIM:     geoffrey  dearmer 

The  day  you  died,  my  Share  of  All 

My  soul  was  tossed 

Hither  and  thither,  like  a  leaf, 

And  lost,  lost,  lost, 

From  sounds  and  sight. 

Beneath  the  night 

Of  gloom  and  grief. 

But— 

(Hush,  for  the  wind  may  hear) 

Soon,  soon  you  came  in  solitude: 

And  we  renewed 

All  happiness. 

Now,  who  shall  guess 

How  close  we  are,  my  dear? 

(Hush,  for  the  wind  may  hear.) 

Yet- 
Other  women  wait 
Their  doors  ajar; 
And  listen,  listen,  listen, 
For  the  gate. 

And  murmur,  "Soon,  the  war 
Will  seem  a  far, 
Dim  agony  of  sleep." 


Geoffrey  Dearmer  39 

May  I  be  joyful,  too, 
That  day, 
For  love  of  you 
May  I  not  turn  away 
Nor — weep. 


40  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


MALEDICTION:     john  drinkwater 

Thrush,  across  the  twilight 
Here  in  the  abbey  close, 
Pouring  from  your  lilac-bough 
Note  on  pebbled  note, 
Why  do  you  sing  so, 
Making  your  song  so  bright, 
Swelling  to  a  throbbing  curve 
That  brave  little  throat? 

Soon,  but  a  season  brief, 
The  lice  among  your  feathers. 
Stiff-winged  and  aimless-eyed. 
With  song  dead  you  shall  fall ; 
Refuse  of  some  clotted  ditch. 
Seeking  no  more  berries; 
Why  with  lyric  numbers  now 
Do  you  the  twilight  call? 

Proud  in  your  tawny  plumes 
Mottled  in  devising, 
Singing  as  though  never  sang 
Bird  in  close  till  now — 
Sharp  are  the  javelins 
Of  death  that  are  seeking. 
Seeking  even  simple  birds 
On  a  lilac-bough. 


John  Drinkwater  41 

Crushed,  forlorn,  a  frozen  thing, 

For  no  more  nesting, 

For  no  more  speckled  eggs 

In  pattered  cup  of  clay, — 

Soon  your  song  shall  come  to  this 

You  who  make  the  twilight  yours, 

And  echoes  of  the  abbey, 

At  the  end  of  day. 

In  the  song  I  hear  it, 

The  thud  of  a  poor  feathered  death, 

In  the  swelling  throat  I  see 

The  splintering  of  song — 

What  demon  then  has  worked  in  me 

To  tease  my  brain  to  bitterness — 

In  me  who  have  loved  bird  and  tree 

So  long,  so  long? 

Until  I  come  to  charity, 
Until  I  find  peace  again. 
My  curse  upon  the  fiend  or  god 
That  will  not  let  me  hear 
A  bird  in  song  upon  the  bough 
But,  hovering  about  the  notes, 
There  chimes  the  maniac  beating 
Of  black-winged  fear. 


42  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


SPECTRAL:     john  drinkwater 

What  will  the  years  tell? 
Hush!     If  it  would  but  speak — 
That  shadow  athwart  the  stream, 
In  the  gloom  of  a  dream; 

Could  my  brain  but  spell 
The  thought  in  the  brain  of  that  weak 
Old  ghost  that  hides  in  the  gloom, 
Over  there,  of  the  chestnut  bloom. 

I  sit  in  the  broad  June  light 

On  the  open  bank  of  the  river, 

In  the  summer  of  manhood,  young; 

And  over  the  water  bright 

Is  a  lair  that  is  overhung 

With  coned  pink  blooms  that  quiver 

And  droop,  till  the  water's  breast 

Is  of  petal  and  leaf  caressed. 

And  the  June  sky  glares  on  my  prime — 

But  there  in  the  gloom,  with  Time, 

Huddled,  with  Time  on  its  back. 

Is  a  shadow  that  is  my  wrack. 

Yes,  it  is  I  in  the  lair. 

Peering  and  watching  me  there. 

Under  the  chestnut  bloom 

My  old  age  hides  in  the  gloom. 


John  Drinkwater 


43 


And  the  years  to  be  have  been, 
Could  I  spell  the  lore  of  that  brain. 
But  the  river  flows  between, 
Over  the  weeds  of  pain. 
Over  the  snares  of  death, 
Maybe,  should  I  leap  to  hold, 
With  myself  grown  old. 
Council  there  in  the  gloom 
Under  the  chestnut  bloom. 

And  so,  with  instruction  none, 

I  go,  and  leave  it  there. 

My  ghost  with  Time  in  its  lair. 

And  the  things  that  must  yet  be  done 

Tear  at  my  heart  unknown, 

And  the  years  have  tongues  of  stone 

With  no  syllable  to  make 

For  consolation's  sake. 

But  peradventure  yet 

I  shall  return 

To  dare  the  weeds  of  death. 

And  plunge  through  the  coned  pink  bloom. 

And  cry  on  that  specter  set 

In  its  silent  ring  of  gloom, 

And  stay  my  youth  to  learn 

The  thing  that  my  old  age  saith. 


1\^ 


44  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


IN  WAR  TIME:     wilfrid  wilson  gibson 


Troopship,     (s.s.  Baltic:     Mid- Atlantic :     July,  1917) 

Dark  waters  into  crystalline  brilliance  break 

About  the  keel,  as  through  the  moonless  night 

The  dark  ship  moves  in  its  own  moving  lake 

Of  phosphorescent  cold  moon-colored  light; 

And  to  the  clear  horizon,  all  around 

Drift  pools  of  fiery  beryl  flashing  bright 

As  though,  still  flashing,  quenchless,  cold  and  white, 

A  million  moons  in  the  dark  green  waters  drowned. 

And  staring  at  the  magic  with  eyes  adream, 
That  never  till  now  have  looked  upon  the  sea, 
Bo3^s  from  the  Middle-West  lounge  listlessly 
In  the  unlanterned  darkness,  boys  who  go 
Beckoned  by  some  unchallengeable  gleam 
To  unknown  lands  to  fight  an  unknown  foe. 


The  Conscript. 

Indifferent,  flippant,  earnest,  but  all  bored, 
The  doctors  sit  in  the  glare  of  electric  light 
Watching  the  endless  stream  of  naked  white 


Wilfrid  Wilson   Gibson  45 

Bodies  of  men  for  whom  their  hasty  award 

Means  life  or  death,  maybe,  or  the  living  death 

Of  mangled  limbs,  blind  eyes  or  darkened  brain: 

And  the  chairman,  as  his  monocle  falls  again, 

Pronounces  each  doom  with  easy,  indifferent  breath. 

Then  suddenly  they  all  shudder  as  they  see 

A  young  man  move  before  them  wearily. 

Pallid  and  gaunt  as  one  already  dead; 

And  they  are  strangely  troubled  as  he  stands 

With   arms   outstretched    and   drooping,    thorn-crowned 

head, 
The  nail-marks  glowing  in  his  feet  and  hands. 


Air-raid. 

Night  shatters  in  mid-heaven:  the  bark  of  guns, 
The  roar  of  planes,  the  crash  of  bombs,  and  all 
The  unshackled  skiey  pandemonium  stuns 
The  senses  to  indifference,  when  a  fall 
Of  masonry  near  by  startles  awake, 
Tingling  wide-eyed,  prick-eared,  with  bristling  hair, 
Each  sense  within  the  body  crouched  aware 
Like  some  sore-hunted  creature  in  the  brake. 


Yet  side  by  side  we  lie  in  the  little  room, 

Just  touching  hands,  with  eyes  and  ears  that  strain 

Keenly,  yet  dream-bewildered,  through  tense  gloom, 

Listening  in  helpless  stupor  of  insane 

Drugged  nightmare  panic  fantastically  wild, 

To  the  quiet  breathing  of  our  sleeping  child. 


46  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


In  War-time. 

As  gaudy  flies  across  a  pewter  plate, 
On  the  gray  disk  of  the  unrippling  sea, 
Beneath  an  airless,  sullen  sky  of  slate 
Dazzled  destroyers  zig-zag  restlessly, 
While  underneath  the  sleek  and  livid  tide, 
Blind  monsters  nosing  through  the  soundless  deep. 
Lean  submarines  among  blind  fishes  glide 
And  through  primeval  weedy  forests  sweep. 

Over  the  hot  gray  surface  of  my  mind 
Glib,  motley  rumors  zig-zag  without  rest, 
While  deep  within  the  darkness  of  my  breast 
Monstrous  desires,  lean,  sinister  and  blind. 
Slink  through  unsounded  night  and  stir  the  slime 
And  ooze  of  oceans  of  forgotten  time. 


Ragtime. 

A  minx  in  khaki  struts  the  limelit  boards: 
With  false  mustache,  set  smirk  and  ogling  eyes 
And  straddling  legs  and  swinging  hips  she  tries 
To  swagger  it  like  a  soldier,  while  the  chords 
Of  rampant  ragtime  jangle,  clash,  and  clatter; 
And  over  the  brassy  blare  and  drumming  din 
She  strains  to  squirt  her  squeaky  notes  and  thin 
Spirtle  of  sniggering  lascivious  patter. 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  47 

Then  out  into  the  jostling  Strand  I  turn, 

And  down  a  dark  lane  to  the  quiet  river, 

One  stream  of  silver  under  the  full  moon, 

And  think  of  how  cold  searchlights  flare  and  burn 

Over  dank  trenches  where  men  crouch  and  shiver, 

Humming,  to  keep  their  hearts  up,  that  same  tune. 


Leave. 

Crouched  on  the  crowded  deck,  we  watch  the  sun 
In  naked  gold  leap  out  of  a  cold  sea 
Of  shivering  silver;  and  stretching  drowsily 
Crampt  legs  and  arms,  relieved  that  night  is  done 
And  the  slinking,  deep-sea  peril  past,  we  turn 
Westward  to  see  the  chilly,  sparkling  light 
Quicken  the  Wicklow  Hills,  till  jewel-bright 
In  their  Spring  freshness  of  dewy  green  they  burn. 

And  silent  on  the  deck  beside  me  stands 
A  soldier,  lean  and  brown,  with  restless  hands, 
And  eyes  that  stare  unkindling  on  the  life 
And  rapture  of  green  hills  and  glistening  mom: 
He  comes  from  Flanders  home  to  his  dead  wife, 
And  I,  from  England,  to  my  son  newborn. 

7 

Bacchanal.     (November,  19 18.) 

Into  the  twilight  of  Trafalgar  Square 

They  pour  from  every  quarter,  banging  drums 

And  tootling  penny  trumpets:  to  a  blare 


48  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Of  tin  mouth-organs,  while  a  sailor  strums 

A  solitary  banjo,  lads  and  girls, 

Locked  in  embraces,  in  a  wild  dishevel 

Of  flags  and  streaming  hair,  with  curdling  skirls 

Surge  in  a  frenzied,  reeling,  panic  revel. 

Lads  who  so  long  have  looked  death  in  the  face, 
Girls  who  so  long  have  tended  death's  machines. 
Released  from  the  long  terror  shriek  and  prance: 
And  watching  them,  I  see  the  outrageous  dance. 
The  frantic  torches  and  the  tambourines 
Tumultuous  on  the  midnight  hills  of  Thrace. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  49 


SHEPHERD   SINGING  RAGTIME:     louis  golding 

The  shepherd  sings: — 

"Way  down  in  Dixie, 

Way  down  in  Dixie, 
Where  the  hens  are  dog-gone  glad  to  lay  .  .  ." 

With  shaded  eyes  he  stands  to  look 
Across  the  hills  where  the  clouds  swoon, 
He  singing,  leans  upon  his  crook, 

He  sings,  he  sings  no  more. 
The  wind  is  muffled  in  the  tangled  hairs 
Of  sheep  that  drift  along  the  noon. 

One  mild  sheep  stares 
With  amber  eyes  about  the  pearl-flecked  June. 

Two  skylarks  soar 

With  singing  flame 
Into  the  sun  whence  first  they  came. 
All  else  is  only  grasshoppers 
Or  a  brown  wing  the  shepherd  stirs, 
Who,  like  a  tall  tree  moving,  goes 
Where  the  pale  tide  of  sheep-drift  flows. 

See!  the  sun  smites 

With  sea-drawn  lights 
The  turned  wing  of  a  gull  that  glows 
Aslant  the  violet,  the  profound 
Dome  of  the  mid-June  heights. 


50  Louis  Golding 


Alas!  again  the  grasshoppers, 
The  birds,  the  slumber-winging  bees, 
Alas!   again  for  those  and  these 
Demure  and  sweet  things  drowned; 
Drowned  in  vain  raucous  words  men  made 
Where  no  lark  rose  with  swift  and  sweet 
Ascent  and  where  no  dim  sheep  strayed 
About  the  stone  immensities, 
Where  no  sheep  strayed  and  where  no  bees 
Probed  any  flowers  nor  swung  a  blade 
Of  grass  with  pollened  feet. 

He  sings: — 

"In  Dixie, 

Way  down  in  Dixie, 
Where  the  hens  are  dog-gone  glad  to  lay 
Scrambled  eggs  in  the  new-mown  hay  .  .  /' 

The  herring-gulls  with  peevish  cries 
Rebuke  the  man  who  sings  vain  words; 
His  sheep-dog  growls  a  low  complaint. 
Then  turns  to  chasing  butterflies. 
But  when  the  indifferent  singing-birds 
From  midmost  down  to  dimmest  shore 
Innumerably  confirm  their  songs, 
And  grasshoppers  make  summer  rhyme 
And  solemn  bees  in  the  wild  thyme 
Clash  cymbals  and  beat  gongs, 
The  shepherd's  words  once  more  are  faint, 
The  shepherd's  song  once  more  is  thinned 
Upon  the  long  course  of  the  wind, 
He  sings,  he  sings  no  more. 


Louis  Golding  5^ 

Ah,  now  the  sweet  monotonies 

Of  bells  that  jangle  on  the  sheep 

To  the  low  limit  of  the  hills! 

Till  the  blue  cup  of  music  spills 

Into  the  boughs  of  lowland  trees; 

Till  thence  the  lowland  singings  creep 

Into  the  silenced  shepherd's  head, 

Creep  drowsily  through  his  blood: 
The  young  thrush  fluting  all  he  knows, 
The  ring-dove  moaning  his  false  woes, 
Almost  the  rabbit's  tiny  tread, 

The  last  unfolding  bud. 


But  now, 
Now  a  cool  word  spreads  out  along  the  sea. 
Now  the  day's  violet  is  cloud-tipped  with  gold. 

Now  dusk  most  silently 
Fills  the  hushed   day  with  other  wings  than 

birds'. 
Now  where  on  foam-crest  waves  the  seagulls 

rock. 
To  their  cliff-haven  go  the  seagulls  thence. 
So  too  the  shepherd  gathers  in  his  flock. 

Because  birds  journey  to  their  dens. 

Tired  sheep  to  their  still  fold. 
A  dark  first  bat  swoops  low  and  dips 
About  the  shepherd  who  now  sings 
A  song  of  timeless  evenings; 
For  dusk  is  round  him  with  wide  wings. 
Dusk  murmurs  on  his  moving  lips. 


52  Louis  Golding 

There  is  not  mortal  man  who  knows 
From  whence  the  shepherd's  song  arose: 
It  came  a  thousand  years  ago. 

Once  the  world's  shepherds  woke  to  lead 
The  folded  sheep  that  they  might  feed 
On  green  downs  where  winds  blow. 

One  shepherd  sang  a  golden  word. 
A  thottsand  miles  away  one  heard. 
One  sang  it  swift,  one  sang  it  slow. 

Three  skylarks  heard,  three  skylarks  told 
All  shepherds  this  same  song  of  gold 
On  all  downs  where  winds  blow. 

This  is  the  song  that  shepherds  must 
Sing  till  the  green  downlands  be  dust 
And  tide  of  sheep-drift  no  more  flow: 

The  song  three  skylarks  told  again 
To  all  the  sheep  and  shepherd  men 
On  green  downs  where  winds  blow. 


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A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  53 


THE  SINGER  OF  HIGH  STATE:    louis  golding 

On  hills  too  harsh  for  firs  to  climb, 
Where  eagle  dare  not  hatch  her  brood, 
Upon  the  peak  of  solitude, 
With  anvils  of  black  granite  crude 

I  forge  austerities  of  rime. 

Such  godlike  stuff  my  spirit  drinks 
I  make  grand  odes  of  tempests  there. 
The  steel-winged  eagle,  if  he  dare 
To  cleave  these  tracts  of  frozen  air, 

Hearing  such  music,  swoops  and  sinks. 

Stark  clangors  of  forgotten  wars, 
Tumults  of  primal  love  and  hate. 
Through  crags  of  song  reverberate. 
Held  by  the  Singer  of  High  State, 

Battalions  of  the  midnight  pause. 

On  hills  uplift  from  Space  and  Time, 
Upon  the  peak  of  Solitude, 
With  stars  to  give  my  furnace  food. 
On  anvils  of  black  granite  crude 

I  forge  austerities  of  rime. 


54  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


FREEDOMS:     gerald  gould 

I 

Those  were  our  freedoms,  and  we  come  to  this: 
The  cHmbing  road  that  lures  the  dimbing  feet 
Is  lost:  there  lies  no  mist  above  the  wheat, 

Where- thro'  to  glimpse  the  silver  precipice. 

Far  off,  about  whose  base  the  white  seas  hiss 
In  spray;  the  world  grows  narrow  and  complete; 
We  have  lost  our  perils  in  the  certain  sweet; 

We  have  sold  our  great  horizon  for  a  kiss. 

To  every  hill  there  is  a  lowly  slope. 

But  some  have  heights  beyond  all  height — so  high 
They  make  new  worlds  for  the  adventuring  eye. 
We  for  achievement  have  forgone  our  hope, 
And  shall  not  see  another  morning  ope. 
Nor  the  new  moon  come  into  the  new  sky. 

2 

Where  is  our  freedom  sought,  and  where  to  seek? 

The  voices  of  the  various  world  agree 

The  future's  ours:  to  hope  is  to  be  free: 
Only  to  doubt,  to  fear,  is  to  be  weak. 
Have  you  not  felt  upon  your  calm  clear  cheek 

The  kiss  of  the  bright  wind  of  liberty? 

What  more  is  there  to  ask,  what  more  to  be? 
Peace,  peace,  my  soul,  and  let  the  silence  speak  1 


Gerald  Gould  55 


To  hope  is  to  be  free?     Nay,  hope's  a  slave 
To  every  chance;  hope  is  the  same  as  fear; 

Hope  trembles  at  the  wind,  the  star,  the  wave, 
The  voice,  the  mood,  the  music;  hope  stands  near 

The  chilly  threshold  of  the  waiting  grave. 

And  when  the  silence  speaks,  hope  does  not  hear. 


In  the  old  days  came  freedom  with  a  sword. 
Ev'n  so;  but  also  freedom  came  with  wings 
Fanning  the  faint  and  purple  bloom  that  clings 

To  the  great  twilight  where  our  dreams  are  stored. 

Freedom  was  what  the  waters  would  afford 
That  yet  obeyed  the  white  moon's  whisperings, 
And  freedom  leapt  and  listened  in  the  strings 

Of  dulcimer  and  lute  and  clavichord. 

In  the  old  days?    But  those  old  days  are  now. 
O  merciful,  O  bright,  O  valiant  brow. 

Can  you  seek  freedom  that  way  and  I  this? 
Not  in  the  single  note  is  music  free. 
But  where  creation's  climbing  fires  agree 

In  multitudes,  in  flights,  in  silences. 


Shall  we  mark  off  our  little  patch  of  power 
From  time's  compulsive  process?     Shall  we  sit 
With  memory,  warming  our  weak  hands  at  it, 

And  say:    "So  be  it;  we  have  had  one  hour"? 


56  Gerald  Gould 


Surely  the  mountains  are  a  better  dower, 
With  their  dark  scope  and  cloudy  infinite, 
Than  small  perfection,  trivial  exquisite; 

'Mid  all  that  dark  the  brightness  of  a  flower! 

Lovers  are  not  themselves:  they  are  more,  they  are 
all: 
For  them  are  past  and  future  spread  together 
Like  a  green  landscape  lit  by  golden  weather: 

For  them  the  rhythmic  change  conjectural 
Of  time  and  place  is  but  the  question  whether 

Their  God  shall  stand  (as  stand  he  must)  or  fall. 

5 

O  cold  remembrance,  careful-careless  kiss. 

That  does  not  wake  to  hope  with  waking  day, 
And  at  the  hour  of  bed- time  does  not  say: 

"That  was  for  rapture,  that  for  peace,  but  this 

Burns  for  the  night's  more  terrible  auspices, 

And  pangs  and  sweets  of  doubt  and  disarray!" — 
Yet  in  one  kiss  two  hearts  found  once  the  way 

From  perfect  ignorance  to  perfect  bliss. 

Love  has  so  many  voices,  low  and  high, 
Such  range  of  reason,  such  delight  of  rime! 
Yet  when  I  asked  love  such  a  simple  thing 
As   why   the  autumn   comes  where   came   the 
spring, 
The  only  soul  that  answered  me  was  I, 

And  love  was  silent  then  for  the  first  time. 


Gerald  Gould  57 


Our  love  is  hurt,  and  the  bad  world  goes  on 
Moving  to  its  conclusion:  in  a  year 
This  corn  now  reaped  will  come  again  to  ear, 

The  moon  will  shine  as  last  night  the  moon  shone; 

The  tide,  whose  thought  is  the  moon's  thought,  will 
don 
The  silver  livery  of  subjection.     Dear, 
Is  it  not  strange  that  hearts  will  hope  and  fear 

And  break,  when  our  hearts,  broken  now,  are  gone? 

If  this  were  true,  life's  movement  would  rebel, 
And  curdle  to  its  source,  as  blood  to  the  heart 
When  the  cold  fires  of  indignation  start 

From  their  obscure  lair  in  the  body. — Well, 
If  for  us  two  to  part  were  just  to  part 

All  years  would  have  one  pointless  tale  to  tell. 

7 

The  little  things,  the  little  restless  things. 

The  base  and  barren  things,  the  things  that  spite 
The  day,  and  trail  processions  through  the  night 

Of  sad  remembrances  and  questionings; 

The  poverties,  stupidities  and  stings, 
The  silted  misery,  the  hovering  blight; 
The  things  that  block  the  paths  of  sound  and 
sight; 

The  things  that  snare  our  thought  and  break  its 
wings — 


58  Gerald  Gould 


How  shall  we  bear  these? — we  who  suffer  so 
The  shattering  sacrifice,  the  huge  despair, 
The  terrors  loosed  Uke  lightnings  on  the  air, 
To  leave  all  nature  blackened  from  that  curse! 
The  big  things  are  the  enemies  we  know, 

The  little  things  the  traitors.    Which  are  worse? 

8 

Now  must  we  gather  up  and  comprehend 
The  volume  of  vicissitude,  and  take 
Account  of  loving,  for  each  other's  sake. 

And  ask  how  love  began  and  how  will  end 

(If  there  be  any  end  of  love,  O  friend 
Of  my  worst  hours  and  best  desires!) — and  stake 
Our  all  upon  the  sweetness  and  the  ache 

Of  what  men's  stories  and  God's  stars  intend. 

You  have  my  all:  you  are  my  all:  you  give. 
Out  of  your  bounty  and  content  of  soul. 

The  only  strength  that  makes  me  fit  to  live — 
Since  earth  of  spirit  takes  such  heavy  toll: 

Yet  I,  the  weak,  the  faint,  the  fugitive. 

Stand  here,  an  equal  part  of  the  great  whole. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  59 


SUMMER  NIGHT:     Laurence  housman 

Light,  like  a  closing  flower,  covers  to  earth  her  herds, 
Out  of  the  world  we  only  watch  for  the  rise  of  moon; 

Darker  the  twilight  glimmers,  dulls  the  warble  of  birds. 
Over  the  silent  field  travels  the  night-jar's  tune. 

Here,  at  my  side,  so  close  that  even  your  breath  I  hear, 
Face  and  form  that  I  love,  now  with  the  night  made 
one, 
Pray  not  for  any  star!     Come  not,  O  moon,  for  fear 
Lest  in  thy  light  we  lose  our  way  ere  the  dream  be 
done. 

Touch,  and  clasp,  and  be  close!     Kiss,  oh  kiss,  and  be 
warm! 
What  is  here,  0  beloved,  so  like  a  sea  without  sound? 
Under  the  swathe  at  our  feet,   swifter  than  wings  of 
storm. 
Summer  speeds  on  his  way:     Spring  lies  dead  in  the 
ground. 

How  like  a  closing  flower,  clasped  by  a  sleeping  bee, 
Life  folds  over  us  now: — and  here  in  the  midst  love 
lies. 
O  beloved,  O  flower  of  night,  no  morrow's  moon  shall  we 

Between  a  dusk  and  a  day  we  meet,  and  at  dawn  Time 
dies! 


6o  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  PALACES  OF  THE  ROSE:     richard  le 

GALLIENNE 

(A  Valentine) 
Which  of  my  palaces?     Gold  one  by  one,  * 

Of  all  the  splendid  houses  of  my  throne, 
This  day  in  grave  thought  have  I  over-gone: 
Those  roofs  of  stars  where  I  have  lived  alone 
Gladly  with  God;  those  blue-encompassed  bowers 
Hushed  round  with  lakes,  and  guarded  with  still  flowers, 
Where  I  have  watched  a  face  from  eve  till  morn, 
Wondering  at  being  bom — 
Then  on  from  morn  again  till  the  next  eve, 
Still  with  strange  eyes,  unable  to  believe; 
And  yet,  though  week  and  month  and  year  went  by, 
Incredulous  of  my  ensorcelled  eye. 
O  had  I  thus  in  trance  for  ever  stayed, 
Still  were  she  there  in  the  reed-girdled  isle. 
And  I  there  still — I  who  go  treading  now 
Eternity,  a-hungered  mile  by  mile: 
Because  I  pressed  one  kiss  upon  her  brow, — 
After  a  thousand  years  that  seemed  an  hour 
Of  looking  on  my  flower, 
After  that  patient  planetary  fast. 
One  kiss  at  last; 
One  kiss — and  then  strange  dust  that  once  was  she. 

Sayest  thou,  Rose,  "What  is  all  this  to  me?" 
This  would  I  answer,  if  it  pleaseth  thee, 


Richard  Le  Gallienne  6i 

Thou  Rose  and  Nightingale  so  strangely  one: 

That  of  my  palaces,  gold  one  by  one, 

I  fell  a-thinking,  pondering  which  to-day, 

The  day  of  the  Blessed  Saint,  Saint  Valentine, 

Which  of  those  many  palaces  of  mine, 

I,  with  bowed  head  and  lowly  bended  knee, 

Might  bring  to  thee. 

0  which  of  all  my  lordly  roofs  that  rise 
To  kiss  the  starry  skies 

May  with  great  beams  make  safe  that  golden  head, 

With  all  that  treasure  of  hair  showered  and  spread, 

Careless  as  though  it  were  not  gold  at  all — 

Yet  in  the  midnight  lighting  the  black  hall; 

And  all  that  whiteness  lying  there  as  though 

It  were  but  driven  snow. 

Pondering  on  all  these  pinnacles  and  towers. 

That,  as  I  come  with  trumpets,  call  me  lord, 

And  crown  their  battlements  with  girlhood  flowers, 

1  can  but  think  of  one.     'Twas  not  my  sword 
That  won  it,  nor  was  it  aught  I  did  or  dreamed, 
But  O  it  is  a  palace  worthy  thee! 

For  all  about  it  flows  the  eternal  sea, 

A  blue  moat  guarding  an  immortal  queen; 

And  over  it  an  everlasting  crown 

That,  as  the  moon  comes  and  the  sun  goes  down, 

Adds  jewel  after  jewel,  gem  on  gem, 

To  the  august  appropriate  diadem 

Of  her,  in  whom  all  potencies  that  are 

Wield  scepters  and  with  quiet  hands  control. 

Kind  as  that  fairy  wand  the  evening  star. 

Or  the  strong  angel  that  we  call  the  soul. 


62  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Thou  splendid  girl  that  seemest  the  mother  of  all, 

Dear  Ceres-Aphrodite,  with  every  lure 

That  draws  the  bee  to  honey,  with  the  call 

Of  moth-winged  night  to  sinners,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  white  nun  that  counts  the  stars  for  beads; 

Thou  blest  Madonna  of  all  broken  needs, 

Thou  Melusine,  thou  sister  of  sorrowing  man. 

Thou  wave-like  laughter,  thou  dear  sob  in  the  throat, 

Thou  all-enfolding  mercy,  and  thou  song 

That  gathers  up  each  wild  and  wandering  note, 

And  takes  and  breaks  and  heals  and  breaks  the  heart 

With  the  omnipotent  tenderness  of  art; 

And  thou  Intelligence  of  rose-leaves  made 

That  makes  that  little  thing  the  brain  afraid. 

For  thee  my  Castle  of  the  Spring  prepares: 

On  the  four  winds  are  sped  my  couriers, 

For  thee  the  towered  trees  are  hung  with  green; 

Once  more  for  thee,  O  queen. 

The  banquet  hall  with  ancient  tapestry 

Of  woven  vines  grows  fair  and  still  more  fair. 

And  ah!  how  in  the  minstrel  gallery 

Again  there  is  the  sudden  string  and  stir 

Of  music  touching  the  old  instruments. 

While  on  the  ancient  floor 

The  rushes  as  of  yore 

Nymphs  of  the  house  of  spring  plait  for  your  feet — 

Ancestral  ornaments. 

And  everywhere  a  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

And  whispers  saying,  "She  is  so  sweet — so  sweet"; 

O  violets,  be  ye  not  too  late  to  blow, 


Richard  Le  Gallienne  63 

O  daffodils  be  fleet: 

For,  when  she  comes,  all  must  be  in  its  place, 

All  ready  for  her  entrance  at  the  door, 

All  gladness  and  all  glory  for  her  face, 

All  flowers  for  her  flower-feet  a  floor; 

And,  for  her  sleep  at  night  in  that  great  bed 

Where  her  great  locks  are  spread, 

O  be  ye  ready,  ye  young  woodland  streams 

To  sing  her  back  her  dreams. 


64  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


PEACE:     ROSE  macaulay 

June  28th,  19 19 

From  the  tennis  lawn  you  can  hear  the  guns  going, 

Twenty  miles  away, 
Telling  the  people  of  the  home  counties 

That  the  peace  was  signed  to-day. 
To-night  there'll  be  feasting  in  the  city; 

They  will  drink  deep  and  eat — 
Keep  peace  the  way  you  planned  you  would  keep  it 

(If  we  got  the  Boche  beat). 
Oh,  your  plan  and  your  word,  they  are  broken, 

For  you  neither  dine  nor  dance; 
And  there's  no  peace  so  quiet,  so  lasting, 

As  the  peace  you  keep  in  France. 


You'll  be  needing  no  Covenant  of  Nations 

To  hold  your  peace  intact. 
It  does  not  hang  on  the  close  guarding 

Of  a  frail  and  wordy  pact. 
When  ours  screams,  shattered  and  driven, 

Dust  down  the  storming  years, 
Yours  will  stand  stark,  like  a  gray  fortress, 

Blind  to  the  storm's  tears. 


Rose  Macaulay 


6s 


Our  peace  .  .  .  your  peace  ...  I  see  neither. 

They  are  a  dream,  and  a  dream, 
I  only  see  you  laughing  on  the  tennis  lawn; 

And  brown  and  alive  you  seem, 
As  you  stoop  over  the  tall  red  foxglove, 

(It  flowers  again  this  year) 
And  imprison  within  a  freckled  bell 

A  bee,  wild  with  fear.  .  .  . 

Oh,  you  cannot  hear  the  noisy  guns  going: 

You  sleep  too  far  away. 
It  is  nothing  to  you,  who  have  your  own  peace. 

That  our  peace  was  signed  to-day. 


mmmm 


manaam 


miirfmiiilUll 


66  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA:     eugene  mason 

THE    CYNDUS 
I 

Beneath  th'  triumphal  blue^  th'  riotous  day, 
Her  silvern  galley  beats  the  black  flood  white, 
Whilst  the  long  sillage  hoards  some  close  delight 

Of  incense,  flutes,  and  stir  of  silk  array. 

From  forth  the  pompous  poop,  her  royal  sway, 

Near  where  the  mystic  hawk  stands  poised  for  flight, 
The  Queen,  erect,  stares  out,  flushed,  exquisite, 

Like  some  great  golden  bird  that  spies  her  prey. 

The  tryst  is  kept:  her  spoiled  warrior  there: 
And  the  brown  gipsy  in  the  swooning  air 

Spreads  amber  arms  the  purple  glow  stains  red; 
Nor  hath  she  seen,  nor  known  with  shuddering  breath. 

Symbols  of  Doom,  those  Youths  Divine  who  shed 
Rose-leaves  on  somber  deeps — Desire  and  Death. 

BATTLE  AT  SUNSET 
2 

The  shock  was  stern:  the  cohorts  near  to  rout. 
Staying  the  flight,  tribune,  centurion, 
From  heat  of  carnage  'neath  th'  enduring  sun 

Breathe  blood,  and  smell  its  savor  as  they  shout. 


Eugene  Mason  67 


With  haggard  eyes,  that  count  the  dead  about, 
Each  spearman  marks  the  archers,  all  undone, 
Whirl  like  heaped  leaves  before  Euroclydon. 

From  the  brown  faces  sweat  falls  gout  by  gout. 

That  fated  hour — ^with  many  a  shaft  stuck  o'er, 
Streaming  in  burnished  brass  and  purple  weed. 

Red  with  the  scarlet  flux  of  wounds  full  sore. 
With  trumpets  shrilling  forth  their  urgent  need. 
Against  the  sunset,  on  his  frighted  steed — 

Surged,  glorious,  the  ensanguined  Emperor. 

ANTONY   AND    CLEOPATRA 

3 

From  the  high  terrace  they  might  see  far  down, 
Egypt  asleep,  by  plague  of  heat  opprest; 
Old  Father  Nile,  in  beauty  manifest. 

Roll  his  rich  flood  towards  many  a  famous  town. 

And  lo,  the  Roman  felt  'neath  mail  and  gown 
(Captain  and  slave,  soothing  a  child  to  rest) 
Relax  and  fail  on  his  triumphant  breast 

That  body  made  for  love,  by  love  o'erthrown. 

Lifting  her  silken  head  and  blanched  face 
To  him  whose  senses  reel  at  such  rare  grace 

And  piercing  sweetness,  she  prefers  her  lips; 
But  stooping  close,  his  ardent  eyes  behold 
In  those  deep  eyes,  sewn  thick  with  points  of  gold, 

A  hazardous  sea  bestrewn  with  fleeing  ships. 

From  the  French  of  Jose  Maria  de  Heredia. 


68  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


DIRGE:       THEODORE  MAYNARD 

If  on  a  day  it  should  befall 
That  love  must  have  her  funeral; 
And  men  weep  tears  that  love  is  dead, 
That  never  more  her  gracious  head 
Can  turn  to  meet  their  eyes  and  hold 
Their  hearts  with  chains  of  silky  gold; 
That  never  more  her  hands  can  be 
As  dear  as  was  virginity; 
That  in  her  coffin  there  is  laid 
Beauty,  the  body  of  a  maid, 
The  body  of  one  so  piteous-sweet, 
With  candles  burning  at  her  feet 
And  cowled  monks  singing  requiem.  .  . 

I  think  I  would  not  go  with  them. 
Her  lordly  lovers,  to  the  place 
Where  lies  that  lovely  mournful  face, 
That  curving  throat  and  marvelous  haii 
Under  the  sconces'  yellow  flare — 
How  shall  a  man  be  comforted 
When  love  is  dead,  when  love  is  dead? 

But  I  would  make  my  moan  apart. 
Keeping  my  dreams  within  my  heart — 
For  guarded  as  a  sepulcher 
Shall  be  the  house  I  built  for  her 


Theodore  Maynard 


69 


Of  silver  spires  and  pinnacles 
With  carillons  of  mellow  bells, 
A  house  of  song  for  her  delight 
Whose  joy  was  as  the  strong  sunlight — 
But  now  love's  ultimate  word  is  said, 
For  love  is  dead,  for  love  is  dead! 


But  even  should  all  hope  be  lost 
Some  memory,  like  a  thin  white  ghost, 
Might  stealthily  move  in  midnight  hours 
Among  those  silent  sacred  towers, 
And  glimmer  on  the  moonlit  lawn 
Until  the  cold  ironic  dawn 
Arises  from  her  saffron  bed — 
When  love  is  dead,  when  love  is  dead 


70  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


DESIDERAVI:     Theodore  maynard 

Lest,  tortured  by  the  world's  strong  sin, 
Her  little  bruised  heart  should  die — 

Give  her  your  heart  to  shelter  in, 
O  earth  and  skyl 

Kneel,  sun,  to  clothe  her  round  about 
With  rays  to  keep  her  body  warm; 

And,  kind  moon,  shut  the  shadows  out 
That  work  her  harm. 

Yes,  even  shield  her  from  my  will's 
Wild  folly — hold  her  safe  and  close!  — 

For  my  rough  hand  in  touching  spills 
Life  from  the  rose. 

But  teach  me,  too,  that  I  may  learn 
Your  passion  classical  and  cool; 

To  me,  who  tremble  so  and  burn. 
Be  pitiful! 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  71 


LAUS  DEO!:     theodore  maynard 

Praise!  that  when  thick  night  circled  over  me 

In  chaos  ere  my  time  or  world  began, 
Thy  finger  shaped  my  body  cunningly, 

Thy  thought  conceived  me  ere  I  was  a  man! 
Thy  Spirit  breathed  upon  me  in  the  dark 

Wherein  I  strangely  grew, 
Bestowing  glowing  powers  to  the  spark 

The  mouth  of  heaven  blew! 

Praise!  that  a  babe  I  leapt  upon  the  world 

Spread  at  my  feet  in  its  magnificence, 
With  trees  as  giants,  flowers  as  flags  unfurled, 

And  rains  as  diamonds  in  their  excellence! 
Praise!  for  the  solemn  splendor  of  surprise 

That  came  with  breaking  day; 
For  all  the  ranks  of  stars  that  met  my  eyes 

When  sunset  burned  away! 

Praise!  that  there  burst  on  my  unfolding  heart 

The  colored  radiance  of  leafy  June, 
With  choirs  of  song-birds  perfected  in  art, 

And  nightingales  beneath  the  summer  moon- 
Praise!  that  this  beauty,  an  unravished  bride 

Doth  hold  her  lover  still; 
Doth  hide  and  beckon,  laugh  at  me,  and  hide 

Upon  each  grassy  hill. 


72  Theodore  Maynard 

Praise!  that  I  know  the  dear  capricious  sky 

In  every  infinitely  varied  mood — 
Yet  under  her  maternal  wings  can  lie 

The  smallest  chick  among  her  countless  brood! 
Praise!  that  I  hear  the  strong  winds  wildly  race 

Their  chariots  on  the  sea, 
But  feel  them  lift  my  hair  and  stroke  my  face 

Softly  and  tenderly! 

Praise!  for  the  joy  and  gladness  thou  didst  send, 

When  I  have  sat  in  gracious  fellowship 
In  firelight  for  an  evening  with  a  friend, 

When  wine  and  magic  entered  at  the  lip! 
For  laughter  which  the  fates  can  overthrow 

Thy  mercy  doth  accord — 
To  Thee,  who  didst  my  godlike  joy  bestow, 

I  lift  my  glass,  O  Lord! 

Praise!  that  a  lady  leaning  from  her  height, 

A  lady  pitiful,  a  tender  maid, 
A  queen  majestical  unto  my  sight. 

Spoke  words  of  love  to  me,  and  sweetly  laid 
Her  hand  within  my  own  unworthy  hand! 

(Rise,  soul,  to  greet  thy  guest. 
Mysterious  love,  whom  none  shall  understand, 

Though  love  be  all  confessed!) 

Praise!  that  upon  my  bent  and  bleeding  back 
Was  stretched  some  share  of  Thy  redeeming  cross, 

Some  poverty  as  largess  for  my  lack. 

Some  loss  that  shall  prevent  my  utter  loss! 


Theodore  Maynard  73 

Praise!  that  thou  gavest  me  to  keep  joy  sweet 

The  sanguine  salt  of  pain! 
Praise!  for  the  weariness  of  questing  feet 

That  else  might  quest  in  vain! 


74  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


AFORETIME:     t.  sturge  moore 

TO  GORDON  BOTTOMLEY 

Dear  exile  from  the  hurrying  crowd, 

At  work  I  muse  to  you  aloud; 

Thought  on  my  anvil  softens,  glows, 

And  I  forget  our  art  has  foes; 

For  life,  the  mother  of  beauty,  seems 

A  joyous  sleep  with  waking  dreams. 

Then  the  toy  armory  of  the  brain 

Opining,  judging,  looks  as  vain 

As  trowels  silver  gilt  for  use 

Of  mayors  and  kings,  who  have  to  lay 

Foundation  stones  in  hope  they  may 

Be  honored  for  walls  others  build. 

I,  in  amicable  muse. 

With  fathomless  wonder  only  filled, 

Whisper  over  to  your  ear 

Listening  two  hundred  odd  miles  north. 

And  give  thought  chase  that,  were  you  here. 

Our  talk  would  never  run  to  earth. 

Man  can  answer  no  momentous  question: 
Whence  comes  his  spirit?    Has  it  lived  before? 
Reason  fails;  hot  springs  of  feeling  spout 
Their  snowy  columns  high  in  the  dim  land 
Of  his  surmise — violent  divine  decisions 


T.  Sturge  Moore  75 

That  often  rule  him:  and  at  times  he  views 

Portraits  of  places  he  has  never  been  to, 

Yet  more  minute  and  vivid  than  remembrance, 

Of  boyhood  homes,  sail  between  sleep  and  waking 

Like  some  mirage,  refuting  all  experience 

With  topsy-turvy  ships. 

That  steals  by  in  dead  calms  through  tropic  haze: 

And  many  a  man  in  his  climacteric  years, 

Thoughts  and  remembered  words  have  roused  from  sleep 

With  knowledge  that  he  lacked  on  lying  down: 

And  I,  lapped  in  a  trance  of  reverie,  doubt 

Some  spore  of  episodes 

Anterior  far  beyond  this  body's  birth, 

Dispersed  like  puffs  of  dust  impalpable, 

Wind-carried  round  this  globe  for  centuries, 

May,  breathed  with  common  air,  yet  swim  the  blood, 

And  striking  root  in  this  or  that  brain,  raise 

Imaginations  unaccountable; 

One  such  seems  half-implied  in  all  I  am, 

And  many  times  re-pondered  shapes  like  this: 

A  child  myself  I  watched  a  woman  loll 

Like  to  a  clot  of  seaweed  thrown  ashore; 

Heavy  and  limp  as  cloth  soaked  in  black  dye. 

She  glooms  the  noontide  dazzle  where  a  bay 

Bites  into  vineyarded  fiats  close-fenced  by  hills, 

Over  whose  tops  lap  forests  of  cork  and  fir 

And  reach  in  places  half  down  their  rough  slopes. 

Lower,  som.e  few  cleared  fields  square  on  the  thickets 

Of  junipers  and  longer  thorns  than  furze 

So  clumped  that  they  are  trackless  even  for  goats 


7^  T.  Sturge  Moore 

I  know  two  things  about  that  woman:  first 

She  is  a  slave  and  I  am  free,  and  next 

As  mothers  need  their  sons'  love  she  needs  mine. 

Longings  to  utter  fond  compassionate  sounds 

Stir  through  me,  checked  by  knowing  wiser  folk 

Reprobate  such  indulgence.     Ill  at  ease, 

Mute,  yet  her  captive,  I  thrust  brown  toes  through 

Loose  sand  no  daily  large  tides  overwhelm 

To  cake  and  roll  it  firm  and  smooth  and  clean 

As  the  Atlantic  remakes  shores,  you  know. 

But  there,  like  trailing  skirts,  long  flaws  of  wind 

Obliterate  the  prints  feet  during  calms 

Track  over  and  over  its  always  lonely  stretch, 

Till  some  will  have  it  ghosts  must  rove  at  night; 

For  folk  by  day  are  rare,  yet  a  still  week 

Leaves  hardly  ten  yards  anywhere  uncrossed; 

Tempest  spreads  all  revirginate  like  snow, 

Half  burying  dead  wood  snapped  off  from  tossed  trees, 

Since  right  along  the  foreshore,  out  of  reach 

Of  furious  driven  waves,  three  hundred  pines 

Straggle  the  marches  between  sand  and  soil. 

Like  maps  of  stone-walled  fields  their  branching  roots 

Hold  the  silt  still  so  that  thin  grass  grows  there, 

Its  blades  whitened  with  traveling  powdery  drift 

The  besom  of  the  lightest  breeze  sets  stirring. 

That  woman's  gaze  toils  worn  from  remote  years, 

Yet  forward  yearns  through  the  bright  spacious  noon, 

Beyond  the  farthest  isle,  whose  filmy  shape 

Floats  faint  on  the  sea-line. 

I,  scooping  grains  up  with  the  frail  half-shell 

Pale  green  and  white-lined  of  sea-urchin,  knew 


T.  Sturge  Moore  77 

What  her  eyes  sought  as  often  children  know 

Of  grief  or  sin  they  could  not  name  or  think  of 

Yet  sooth  or  shrink  from,  so  I  saw  and  longed 

To  heal  her  tender  wound  and  yet  said  naught. 

The  energy-  of  bygone  joy  and  pain 

Had  left  her  listless  figure  charged  with  magic 

That  caught  and  held  my  idleness  near  hers. 

Resentful  of  her  power,  my  spirit  chafed 

Against  its  own  deep  pity,  as  though  it  were 

Raised  ghost  and  she  the  witch  had  bid  it  haunt  me. 

What's  more  I  knew  this  slave  by  rights  should  glean 

And  faggot  drift-wood,  not  lounge  there  and  waste 

My  father's  food  dreaming  his  time  away. 

For  then  as  now  the  common-minded  rich 

Grudged  ease  to  those  whose  toil  brought  them  in  means 

For  every  waste  of  life.    At  length  I  spoke, 

Insulting  both  my  inarticulate  soul 

And  her  with  acted  anger:     "Lazy  wretch, 

Is  it  for  eyes  like  yours  to  watch  the  sea 

As  though  you  waited  for  a  homing  ship? 

My  father  might  with  reason  spend  his  hours 

Scanning  the  far  horizon;  for  his  Swan 

Whose  outward  lading  was  full  half  a  vintage 

Is  now  months  overdue."    She  turned  on  me 

Her  languor  knit  and,  through  its  homespun  wrap. 

Her  muscular  frame  gave  hints  of  rebel  will, 

While  those  great  caves  of  night,  her  eyes,  faced  mine, 

Dread  with  the  silence  of  unuttered  wrongs: 

At  last  she  spoke  as  one  who  must  be  heeded. 

Truly  I  am  not  clear 

Whether  her  meaning  was  conveyed  in  words 


yS  T.  Sturge  Moore 

(She  mingled  accents  of  an  eastern  tongue 

With  deformed  phrases  of  our  native  Latin) 

Or  whether  thought  from  her  gaze  poured  through  mine. 

The  gravity  of  recollected  life 

Was  hers,  condensed  and,  like  a  vision,  flashed 

Suddenly  on  the  guilty  mind,  a  whole 

Compact,  no  longer  a  mere  tedious  string 

Of  moments  negligible,  each  so  small 

As  they  were  lived,  but  stark  like  a  slain  man 

Who  would  alive  have  been  ourself  with  twice 

The  skill,  the  knowledge,  the  vitality 

Actually  ours.    Yea,  as  a  tree  may  view 

With  fingerless  boughs  and  lorn  pole  impotent, 

An  elephant  gorged  upon  its  leaves  depart, 

Men  often  have  reviewed  an  unwieldy  past. 

That  like  a  feasted  Mammoth,  leisured  and  slow, 

Turned  its  back  on  their  warped  bones.     Even  thus, 

Momentous  with  reproach,  her  grave  regard 

Made  me  feel  mean,  cashiered  of  rank  and  right. 

My   limbs   that    twelve   good   years   had   nursed   were 

numbed 
And  all  their  fidgety  quicksilver  grew  stiff, 
Novel  and  fevering  hallucinations 
Invaded  my  attention.    So  daylight 
When  shutters  are  thrown  back  spreads  through  a  house; 
As  then  the  dreams  and  terrors  of  the  night 
Decamp,  so  from  my  mind  were  driven 
All  its  own  thoughts  and  feelings.    Close  she  leant 
Propped  on  a  swarthy  arm,  while  the  other  helped 
With  eloquent  gesture  potent  as  wizard  wand, 
Veil  the  world  off  as  with  an  airy  web, 


T.  Sturge  Moore  79 

Or  flowing  tent  a-gleam  with  pictured  folds. 

These  tauten  and  distend — one  sea  of  wheat, 

Islanded  with  black  cities,  borders  now 

The  voluminous  blue  pavilion  of  day. 

There-under  to  the  nearest  of  those  towns 

This  woman  younger  by  ten  years  made  haste 

While  at  her  side  ran  a  small  boy  of  six. 

They  neared  the  walls,  half  a  huge  double  gate 

Lay  prostrate,  though  the  other  by  stone  hinges 

Hung  to  its  flanking  tower.     The  path  they  followed 

Threaded  an  old  paved  road  whose  flags  were  edged 

With  dry  grass  and  dry  weeds,  even  cactuses 

Had  pushed  the  stones  up  or  found  root  in  muck  heaps; 

The  path  struck  up  the  slope  of  the  fallen  door. 

Basalt  like  midnight,  o'er  which  dusty  feet 

Had  grayed  a  passage,  for  it  rested  on 

Some  debris  fallen  from  the  left-hand  tower, 

And  from  its  upper  edge  rude  blocks  like  steps 

Led  down  into  the  straight  main  street,  that  ran 

Past  eyeless  buildings  mined  as  it  were  from  coal, 

And  earthquake-raised  to  light.     Palaces  and 

Roofless  wide-flighted  colonnaded  temples, 

The  uncemented  walls  piled-plumb  with  blocks 

Squared,  polished,  fitted  with  daemonic  patience. 

Each  gaping  threshold  high  again  as  need  be 

Waited  a  nine-foot  lord  to  enter  hall, 

Where  the  least  draughty  comer  sheltered  now 

Half-tented  hut  or  improvised  small  home 

For  Arab,  brown,  light-footed  and  proud-necked 

As  was  this  woman  with  the  compelling  voice. 

Their  present  hutched  and  hived  within  that  past 


oO  T.  Sturge  Moore 


As  bees  in  the  parchment  chest  of  Samson's  lion; 

And  all  seem  conscious  that  their  life  was  sweet, 

Like  mice  who  clean  their  faces  after  meals 

And  have  such  grace  of  movement,  when  unscared, 

As  wins  the  admiration  even  of  those 

Whose  stores  they  rob  and  soil,    I  saw  her  eyes 

Young  with  contentment  in  her  son 

And  smaller  babe  and  in  their  handsome  sire, 

And  knew  that  many  a  supper  had  been  relished 

With  hearts  as  joyous  as  waited  while  she  cooked 

And  served  upon  returning  to  their  cot 

In  hall  where  once  far  other  hearts  caroused. 

They  and  their  tribe  could  never  reap  a  tithe 

Of  the  vast  harvest  rustling  round  those  ruins, 

And  over  which  a  half-moon  soon  set  forth 

From  black  hills  mounded  up  both  east  and  south, 

While  north-west  her  light  played  on  distant  summits; 

All  the  huge  interspace  floored  with  standing  com 

■WTiich  kings  afar  send  soldiery  to  reap, 

Who  now,  beside  a  long  canal  cut  straight 

In  ancient  days,  have  pitched  their  noisy  camp 

Which  on  that  vast  staid  silence  makes  a  bruise 

Of  blare  and  riot  that  its  robust  health 

Will  certainly  heal  in  a  brief  lapse  of  time. 

One  night,  re-thought  on  after  ten  whole  years. 
Is  like  the  condor  high  above  the  Andes, 
A  speck  with  difficulty  found  again 
Once  the  attention  quits  it.    And  I  next 
Descried  our  woman  under  breathless  noon. 
Bathing  in  a  clear  lane  of  gliding  water 


T.  Sturge  Moore  8i 

Whose  banks  seem  lonely  as  the  path  of  light 

Crossing  mid  ocean  south  of  Capricorn. 

Her  son  steals  warily  after  a  butterfly 

And  is  as  hushed  with  hope  to  capture  it 

As  are  the  birds  with  heat.    An  insect  hum 

Circles  the  spot  as  round  a  cymbals  rim, 

Long  after  it  has  clanged,  tingles  a  throb 

Which  in  a  dream  forgets  the  parent  sound, 

Oppressed  by  this  protracted  and  awe-filled  pause. 

She  hardly  dares  to  wade  the  stream  and  moves 

As  though  in  dread  to  wake  some  sleeping  god, 

Yet  still  she  nears  and  nears  the  further  bank 

Where  there  is  shade  under  a  shumac's  eaves. 

The  brilliant  surface  cut  her  right  in  two. 

And  the  reflection  of  her  bronzed  torso 

Hid  all  beneath  the  polished  gliding  mirror; 

How  her  face  listened  to  that  sleep  divine 

Whose  audible  breath  was  tuned  to  dreams  of  bliss! 

Sudden,  as  though  the  woof  of  heaven  were  torn, 
A  strident  shout  rang  from  some  neighbor  shrubs 
Three  Nubian  soldiers  ran  upon  her  with 
Delighted  oily  faces.     Screaming  first 
Commands  to  her  small  son  to  make  for  home, 
She  labored  to  recross  the  current  as  when 
In  nightmares  the  scared  soul  expects  to  die 
Tortured  by  mutiny  in  limbs  like  lead, 
But  as  the  playful  lion  of  the  sea 
Climbs  the  rock  ledges  hard  by  Fingal's  cave 
To  throw  himself  down  into  deep  green  baths. 
While  others  barking  follow  his  vigorous  lead, 


82  T.  Sturge  Moore 

The  foremost  Abyssinian  threw  his  weight 

Before  her  with  a  splash  that  hid  them  both, 

As  the  explosion  of  light-filled  liquid  parcels 

Shot  forth  in  all  directions.    In  his  arms 

She  re-appeared,  a  tragic  terrified  face 

Beside  his  coarse  one  laughing  with  success. 

Squeezing  her  with  a  pantomime  of  love, 

He  turns  to  follow  an  arrow  with  his  eyes 

That  his  companion,  still  upon  the  bank, 

Has  aimed  towards  her  son's  small  head  that  bobbed 

Like  a  black  cork  across  the  basking  corn. 

But  from  the  level  of  the  sunk  stream  bed 

Neither  he  nor  she  could  see  the  target  aimed  at, 

Yet  in  the  pause  they  heard  the  poor  child  scream; 

A  second  arrow,  second  scream;  she  fought, 

But  soon  like  bundle  bound,  hung  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Helpless  as  a  mouse  in  cat's  mouth  carried  off 

In  search  of  quiet,  there  to  play  with  it. 

Those  arrows  missed? — or  did  they  not?     The  child 

Shrieked  twice,  yet  scarcely  like  a  wounded  thing 

She  thought  and  hoped  and  still  but  thinks  and  hopes. 

Where  is  that  boy?     Where  is  her  husband  now? 

While  she  submitted  body  to  force  and  soul 

To  the  great  shuddering  violence  of  despair 

How  had  their  life  progressed  in  that  far  place? 

Compassion  fused  my  consciousness  with  hers 

And  second-sighted  eloquence  arose 

To  claim  my  mind  for  rostrum, 

But  obstinately  tranced 

My  eyes  clung  to  their  vision; 

For  regions  to  explore  allure  the  boy 


T.  Sturge  Moore  83 

No  stretch  of  thought  or  sea  of  feeling  tempts. 

Entranced,  the  mind  I  then  had,  haunted 

Those  basalt  ruins.    High  on  sable  towers 

Some  silky  patriarchal  goat  appears 

And  ponders  silent  streets,  or  suddenly 

Some  nanny,  her  huge  bag  swollen  with  milk, 

Trots  out  on  galleries  that  unfenced  run 

Round  vacant  courts,  there,  stopped  by  plaintive  kids, 

Lets  them  complete  their  meal.     While  always,  always, 

Throughout,  those  mazed,  sullen  and  sun-soaked  walls, 

The  steady,  healthy  wind. 

Which  often  blows  for  weeks  without  a  lull 

Across  that  upland  plain. 

Flutes  staidly.    Moaning 

Continuously  as  seas 

Or  forests  before  storm, 

And,  gathering  moment, 

Articulated  by  her  woe,  begins 

With  second-sighted  eloquence 

To  wail  through  me, 

Nigh  as  unheeded, 

As  though  it  still  had  been 

Meaningless  wind. 

For  ah!  the  heart  is  cowed 

And  dares  not  use  her  strength, 

Hears  the  kind  impulse  plead 

Against  the  common  avaricious  fear. 

Grants  it  but  life,  though  sovereignty  was  due 

Or  doles  it  sway  but  one  day  out  of  seven 

Or  one  a  year. 


84  T.  Sturge  Moore 

So,  so,  and  ever,  so 

In  the  close-cuntained  court 

Those  causes  are  deferred 

Which  most  import; 

These  wait  man's  leisure. 

These  daily  matters  elbow; 

Merely  because 

His  panic  meanness 

Jibs  blindly  ere  it  hear 

What  wisdom  has  prepared. 

Bolts  headlong  ere  it  see 

Her  face  unfold  its  smile, 

Man  after  man,  race  after  race 

Drops  jaded  by  the  iterancy 

Of  petty  fear. 

Even  as  horses  on  the  green  steppes  grazing. 

Hundreds  scattered  through  lonely  peacefulness, 

If  shadow  of  cloud  or  red  fox  breaking  earth 

Delude  but  one  with  dream  of  a  stealthy  foe. 

All  are  stampeded. 

Their  frantic  torrent  draws  in. 

With  dire  attraction,  cumulative  force. 

Stragglers  grazing  miles  from  where  it  started; 

On  it  thunders  quite  devoid  of  meaning. 

The  tender  private  soul 

Thus  takes  contagion  from  the  sordid  crowd, 

And  shying  at  mere  dread  of  loss, 

Loses  the  whole  of  life. 

Thus,  in  the  vortex  of  a  base  turmoil. 

Those  myriad  million  energies  wear  down 

That  might  have  raised  mankind 


T.  Sturge  Moore  85 

To  live  the  life  of  gods. 

Had  but  my  soul  been  his, 

As  his  was  mine, 

Those  wind-resembling  accents 

Had  found  fit  auditor. 

Their  second-sighted  eloquence, 

Welcomed  with  acclamation, 

Had  fired  action. 

But  that  was  ages  since:  he  was  not  then 

What  now  I  am. 

Who  have  no  longer 

The  opportunity  then  mine,  then  missed, — 

Who  still  am  dazed  and  troubled 

Surmising  others  mine,  others  missed. 

Passionate,  never-wearied  voice 

Tombed  in  thy  brittle  shell. 

This  human  heart 

Thou  croonest  age  on  age, 

"Give  and  ask  not. 

Help  and  blame  not," 

Heeded  less  than  large  and  mottled  cowry 

The  which  at  least  some  child  may  hold  to  ear 

All  smiles  to  listen. 

Thou  findest  parables; 
With  fond  imagination 
Adorning  truth 
For  the  successive 
Unpersuaded 
Generations. 


86  T.  Sturge  Moore 


This  boy,  myself  that  was, 

Musing  visions  by  that  woman  raised, 

Watched  that  land  she  came  from,  towned  with  ruins 

Send  mile-long  files  of  laden  camels  out 

With  grain  to  hostile  cities, — 

Knew  too  the  blue  entrancing  plain  of  waters 

Teemed  with  fresh  shoals,  buoyed  up  indifferently, 

Fisher — trader — pirate  bark, — 

Even  the  straight  thought  whispered  at  his  ear, 

"Thy  lips  might  join  with  hers  as  with  some  cousin's. 

Here,  now,  at  noon, 

Hugging  her  bereaved  sadness  close, 

And  still,  to-night,  with  equal  satisfaction. 

Thy  mother's  blind  contentment  with  her  son." 

While  half-seduced,  half-chafed,  his  mind  was  shaken 

As  with  conflicting  gusts  a  choppy  sea. 

His  eyes,  still  greedy  of  their  visions, 

Fastened  a  swarthy  town  enisled  in  wheat. 

And  to  the  ebon  threshold  of  each  house, 

Conjured  forth  the  man  that  each  was  planned  for: 

Great  creatures  smiling  with  his  father's  smile, 

Muscular,  wealthy  and  self-satisfied. 

Wearing  loud-colored  raiment,  earrings,  chains. 

Armlet  and  buckle,  all  of  clanking  gold. 

His  spirit  drank  from  theirs  great  draughts  of  pride 

And  read  their  minds  more  clearly  than  his  own; 

All,  with  one  counsel  like  a  chorus,  dinned 

His  soul  that  then  was  mine, 

With  truths  well-proved  in  action. 

"Love  is  chaos, 

For  order's  sake 


T.  Sturge  Moore  87 

Whatever  must  be,  should  be," 

Roared  those  bulls  of  Bashan. 

Then  their  proud  chant  argued, 

"How  should  this  woman  know 

Her  little  lad  again, 

Who  either  now  is  bones 

Under  the  fertile  field, 

Or  well  nigh  a  grown  man? 

Say  they  should  cross  at  market 

Both  slaves  v/ould  pass  on,  not  a  start  the  wiser. 

Wliat  is  she  then  to  him 

Or  he  to  her 

After  these  years? 

To  drag  a  life  that  might  have  been  but  is  not 

With  toil  of  mind  and  heart. 

Through  dreary  year  on  year, 

Neglecting  for  its  sake  the  life  that  is, 

Spells  folly  and  ingratitude  to  those 

Who  treat  their  slaves  well. 

Thy  father's  household  and  thyself  should  be 

More  to  her  now  than  those  who  may  be  dead, 

The  place  she  lives  in  dearer 

Than  any  unattainable  far  land 

Where  she  is  more  forgotten  than  old  dreams. 

Why  make  the  day  of  evil  worse 

By  dwelling  on  it  after  it  has  past? 

Near  things  alone  are  real. 

Now  is  the  whole  of  time: 

Places  beyond  the  horizon  are  but  pictures; 

Memory  cheats  the  eye  with  an  illusion!" 

"Your  thoughts  are  sound,  bold  builders. 


88  T.  Sturge  Moore 

I  am  my  father's  son. 

Behold  this  home-shore,  these  our  hills,  this  bay. 

And  this  our  slave! — 

Up,  work,  look  sharp  about  it!" 

Bounding  a  foot  and  fast  retiring  from  her, 

I  stoop  for  stones  strewn  thick  about  the  sand. 

Aim  them,  fling  them. 

And,  as  my  idle  arm  resumes  the  knack. 

Score  a  hit  and  laugh 

To  see  her  stumble  hurt,  behind  the  pine  trunks. 

"Unless  you  work,  I  throw  again. 

To  it  and  steady  at  it. 

Mark  me,  drab,  we  Camilli 

Mean  what  we  say." 

Stone  after  stone  still  flies, 

But  aimed  to  knock  chips  from  the  pine-boles  now; 

For  she  is  busy  gathering  sticks,  increasing 

Her  distance  as  she  may.    The  noon  is  sultry, 

Heated  and  clammy,  I, 

Towards  the  live  waves  turning,  slip  my  tunic. 

Then  nm  in  naked. 

Cooled  and  soothed  by  swimming. 

Both  mind  and  heart  from  their  late  tumult  tuned 

To  placid  acquiescent  health, 

I  float,  suspended  in  the  limpid  water, 

Passive,  rhythmically  governed; 

So  tranced  worlds  travel  the  dark  shoreless  ether. 

"Where  should  this  stream  of  pictures  tend?" 
No,  Bottomley,  you  will  not  ask; 
To  you  I  am  quite  free  to  send 


T.  Sturge  Moore  89 

The  unexpected,  unexplained, 
You  will  not  take  me  thus  to  task. 

So  they  be  painted  well,  they  live; 
If  ill,  they  yet  may  cling  to  fame 
Associated  with  your  name. 
In  which  case  you,  and  not  I,  give 
That  we  are  both  contented  with. 


90  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


DOWN  HERE  THE  HAWTHORN:     thomas  moult 

Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 

And  a  stir  of  wings, 

Spring-lit  wings  that  wake 

Sudden  tumult  in  the  brake, 

Tumult  of  blossom  tide,  tumult  of  foaming  mist 

Where    the    bright    bird's    tumultuous    feathers 
kissed. 

White  mists  are  blinding  me, 

White  mist  of  hedgerow,  white  mist  of  wings. 
Down  here  the  hawthorn 

And  a  stir  of  wings  .  .  . 

Softly  swishing,  swdft  with  spray- 
All  along  the  green  laneway 

Dewdimmed,  sunwashed,  windsweet  and  winter- 
free 

They  flash  upon  the  light. 

They  swing  across  the  sight, 

I  cannot  see,  I  cannot  see!   ... 

Down  here  the  flowering  hawthorn  flings 
Sleet  of  petals,  petalled  shells 
Spread  the  colored  air  that  sings 
Magic  and  a  myriad  spells 
Spun  by  my  count  of  Springs. 
Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 


Thomas  Moult  91 

And  the  flower-foam  stirred 

By  a  Spring-lit  bird. 

White  hawthorn  mist  is  blinding  me. 

I  lower  my  gaze,  and  on  this  old 

Brown  bridle  road 

Crusted  with  golden  moss  and  mold 

The  hedgerow  flings 

Lush  carpetings, 

Blossom  woven  carpetings  light  lain 

Under  the  farmer's  lumbering  load; 

And,  floating  past  the  spent  March  wrack, 

The  footstep  trail,  the  traveler's  track. 

Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 
White  mists  are  blinding  me, 
White  mists  that  rime  the  fresh  green  bank 
Where  fernleaf-fall 
And  sorrel  tall 
Upwaving,  rank  on  rank 
Shall  flush  the  bed  whereon  the  windflowers  sank. 

I  turn  these  Spring-bewildered  eyes  of  mine, 

I  seek  above  the  surf  of  hedgerow  line 

Where  peeping  branches  reach,  and  reaching  twine 

Faint  cherry  or  plum  or  eglantine. 

But  with  pretense  of  whisperings 

The  year's  young  mischief -wind  shall  take 

By  storm  these  shy  striplings. 

And  soon  or  later  shake 

Their  slender  limbs,  and  make 

Free  with  their  clinging  may — 

Strip  from  them  in  a  single  boisterous  day 


92  Thomas  Moult 


Their  first  and  last  vesture  of  pale  bloom  spray. 

So,  as  to  meet  such  lack 

In  bush  or  brack, 

The  kindly  hedgerows  make 

Sure  of  a  Springtime  for  these  frailer  things. 

Shedding  on  each  the  lavish  crearathorn  flake. 

Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 
On  all  the  green  leaf-clusters  round  me  clings 
Thickly  a  spray  of  gentle  blossomings 
Everywhere  as  with  many  bells 
The  young  year  with  white  magic  swells. 
The  morning  rings. 
White  mist  is  blinding  me, 
I  cannot  see,  I  cannot  seel 
Blind  grows  the  colored  air  that  sings 
The  marvel  of  a  myriad  spells 
Spun  by  my  count  of  Springs. 
Sleet  of  petals,  petaled  shells 
Falling  with  sudden  poignancy 
(As  the  sleet  stings) 
Upon  the  lightheart-hope  which  only  clear  sight 

knows. 
And  slowly  drifts, 
Lingering  among  the  snows 
Nor,  though  the  snow  lifts. 
Ever  goes 

The  wistful  heartache  as  the  fresh  Spring  flows 
With  slipping  sureness  to  the  time  of  the  rose,  and 
the  withered  rose. 
Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 
And  heaping  blossom  stirred 


Thomas  Moult  93 

By  a  joy-swift  bird. 

White  mists  are  blinding  me, 

White  mist  of  hedgerow,  white  mist  of  wings. 

The  bird's  flight  flings 

Deep  carpetings 

Over  the  wrack 

Of  my  life's  track. 

Down  here  the  hawthorn  .  .  . 
The  air  of  colored  years  is  blurred 
By  the  Spring,  by  a  bird. 
White  mists  are  blinding  me, 
White  mists  on  the  years  to  be, 
I  cannot  see,  I  cannot  see  .  .  . 


94  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


INVOCATION:     thomas  moult 

Hurl  down,  harsh  hills,  your  bitterness 

Of  wind  and  storm. 

Stem  ye  the  drift  of  herded  men 

With  your  uncouthness 
So,  tasting  of  your  power,  they  press 
Back  shrinking  where  upon  their  warm 

Safe  ways  of  smoothness 
They  feed  their  various  lusts  again. 

Guard  ye,  wild  hills,  with  scar  and  whip 

Your  outlawry 

Lest  alien-hearted  pigmies  tame 

Your  trackless  boulders, 
And  with  their  unclean  cunning  slip 
The  leash  of  civilry 

Fast  round  your  shoulders. 
O  keep  ye  from  that  shame. 

Or  they  shall  surely  come,  black  hordes 

Swarming  as  lice 

With  their  obscenities  and  greed 

Across  your  fastness. 
Even  your  peaks  that  swing  white  swords, 
Rent,  splintered  ice 

Into  the  vastness 
Of  skies  where  fanged  winds  feed. 


Thomas  Moult  95 

Hurl  down,  harsh  hills,  your  bitterness, 

Guard  ye  with  flail 

Of  shattering  wind  and  thong  of  sleet 

Your  pride  uplifting 
To  the  impaled  stars;  be  pitiless 
Before  this  unquiet  trail 

Of  man-herds  drifting 
Against  your  stone  still  feet. 


96  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


PAEAN:     ROBERT  nichols 

On  Seeing  a  Portrait  of  Blake 

Something  moves  in  his  dust, 
Flame  sleeps  beneath  the  crust; 
O  whence  had  he  those  eyes 
Lit  with  celestial  surprise? 
From  what  world  blew  that  gust? 
Are  we  near  to  Paradise? 

Gather  a  chaplet  of  five  stars 

And  the  opalescent  hue 

Of  the  aureole  brightness  cast — 

Red,  hardly  red,  and  blue,  scarce  blue,- 

Round  th'  immaculate  frosty  moon. 

Splintering  light  in  glacial  spars. 

When  November's  loudening  blast 

Sweeps  heaven's  floor  till  burnished 

More  crystal  than  at  August  noon. 

So  we  fit  radiance  may  cast 

Before  his  feet,  around  his  head. 

How  visits  he  an  earthly  place, 
Wanders  among  a  mortal  race? 
How  were  his  footsteps  led 
That  still  about  his  face 
Lingers  a  ghostly  trace 
Of  a  secret  influence  shed 


Robert  Nichols  97 

By  a  Hand  the  world  denies, 
In  a  land  her  most  son  flies, 
As  a  gift  upon  him  thrust 
For  an  end  he  knoweth  not. 
Yet  will  shine  because  he  must, 
Shine  and  sing  because  he  must 
Reap  a  wrong  he  soweth  not 
Of  contempt  anger  and  distrust 
For  a  world  which  boweth  not 
To  the  Flame  which  binds  our  dust. 

Go  net  the  moon,  go  snare  the  sun. 

Set  them  upon  his  either  hand! 

Beneath  his  heels  Leviathan 

Roll  your  thick  coils !    His  head  be  spanned 

By  rainbows  tripled!     Set  a  gem 

At  the  Cross-scabbard  of  his  sword 

Whiter  than  lambwool  or  lilystem! 

Place  on  his  brow  the  diadem 

Given  the  warrior  of  the  Lord, 

The  crown- turrets  of  Jerusalem! 


JlM|JLlll|i«u\MlMjJUiyi^^ 


98  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  FALL:     eden  phillpotts 

I'll  sing  a  song  of  kings  and  queens 
And  falling  leaves  and  flying  rain, 
With  Time  to  mow,  and  Fate  who  gleans 
Their  good  and  evil,  boon  and  bane. 

I'll  sing  a  song  of  leaves  and  rains 
And  flying  queens  and  falling  kings. 
Yet  doubt  not  reason  still  remains 
Snug  hidden  at  the  core  of  things. 

For  every  year  an  autumn  brings 
To  round  the  root  and  fat  the  sheaves 
And  haply  gamer  queens  and  kings 
With  falling  rain  and  flying  leaves. 

The  rain  is  salt  with  tears  of  queens 
The  leaves  are  red  with  blood  of  kings; 
Unknowing  what  the  mystery  means 
We  puzzle  at  these  splendid  things. 

For  why  great  kings  and  rains  should  fall, 
And  wherefore  leaves  and  queens  should  fly, 
Of  such  rare  wonders  be  at  all. 
You  cannot  tell;  no  more  can  I. 

Yet  this  we  know:  new  leaves  and  rain 
Anon  shall  crown  the  vernal  scene. 
But  dust  of  dynasts  not  again 
Blows  up  into  a  king  or  queen. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  99 


GHOSTIES  AT  THE  WEDDING:     eden  phillpotts 

Turn  down  a  glass  afore  his  place; 

Draw  up  the  dog-eared  chair; 

For  though  we  shall  not  see  his  face, 

I  think  he  will  be  here 

Our  wedding  day  to  share. 

Turn  up  the  glass  where  she  would  be 
And  put  a  red  rose  there. 
Her  quick,  gray  eyes  we  cannot  see, 
But  weren't  they  everywhere, 
And  shall  not  they  be  here? 

Though  them  old  blids  are  in  the  grave 
And  their  good  light's  gone  out. 
We'd  sooner  their  kind  ghosties  have 
Than  all  the  living  rout 
As  will  be  there  no  doubt. 

For  some  are  dead  as  cannot  die. 
Some  flown  as  cannot  flee. 
You  still  do  fancy  'em  near  by. 
'Tis  so  with  him  and  she. 
At  any  rate  to  we. 


lOO  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


FOUR  LYRICS:     Arthur  k.  sabin 

I. 

When  old  Anacreon  sang  the  wine 

Which  made  his  utterance  divine, 

Perchance  the  eyes  he  gazed  into 

Were  lucent  as  the  sun- touched  dew — 

Brighter,  perchance,  than  yours;  and  yet 

Eyes  like  yours,  smolderingly  lit 

With  the  calm  passion  of  the  spirit, 

No  young  Greek  maid  did  e'er  inherit .... 

Ahl  twenty  years  are  not  enough 

To  mold  to  such  celestial  stuff 

A  soul,  my  dear,  as  yours  is  molded. 

Wherein  all  dreams  of  life  lie  folded, 

And  through  whose  doors  a  friend  may  slip 

Into  serene  companionship. 

II. 

She  came,  as  one  who  in  the  light 
Of  many  a  sunset  hour  had  grown 
Half  sad,  half  glad,  because  the  night 
So  soon  about  her  would  be  thrown. 
With  melancholy  ages  old. 
And  laughter  fragrant  as  the  Spring, 
She  came,  and  in  her  low  voice  told 


Arthur  K.  Sabin  loi 

Tales  of  rich  joy  and  sorrowing. 
She  led  me  to  her  garden,  fair 
With  flowers  I  love  and  whispering  trees, 
And  to  her  arbor  sheltered  there 
In  peace,  all  redolent  of  peace. 
With  rapt  delight  of  halting  speech, 
And  commune,  such  as  those  have  felt 
Whose  minds  move  silent  each  by  each, 
Whose  hopes  are  kindred  hopes,  we  dwelt. 
But  though  with  love  and  dreams  of  gold 
She  wove  rare  charms  about  that  nest, 
My  heart  lay  aching  still,  and  cold: 
I  could  not  rest,  I  could  not  rest. 

III. 

The  birds  are  quiet  on  the  boughs, 
And  quiet  are  my  slumbering  trees  .  .  . 
O  come  a  short  while  to  my  house 
And  share  these  evening  silences. 

Come!  for  the  sunset's  weary  smile 
Has  faded;  night  is  falling  deep: 
And  we  will  rest  a  little  while 
And  talk  together  ere  we  sleep. 

IV. 

It  may  be  that  in  future  years, 

When  life  serenely  yields  its  best 

Of  steadfast  joy  and  fleeting  tears. 

And,  blessing,  you  move  on,  thrice  blest, — 


102  Arthur  K.  Sabin 

Amid  glad  tasks  of  love  and  home, 
And  fond  caresses  every  day, 
A  softened  thought  of  me  shall  come 
And  fly  to  reach  me  when  you  pray; 

Then  I  shall  tremble  where  I  sit 
Unhelped  through  those  gray  years  to  be, 
As,  like  a  benediction,  it 
Shall  flood  in  sweetness  over  oe. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  103 


THE  RETURN:     Margaret  sackville 

Last  night,  within  our  little  town 

The  Dead  came  marching  through; 

In  a  long  line,  like  living  men. 
Just  as  they  used  to  do. 

Only,  so  long  a  line  it  seemed 

You'd  think  the  Judgment  Day 

Had  dawTied,  to  see  them  slowly  pass, 
With  faces  turned  one  way. 

They  walked  no  longer  foe  and  foe 
But  brother  bound  to  brother; 

Poor  men,  common  men  they  walked 
Friendly  to  one  another. 

Just  as  in  life  they  might  have  done 
Who  stabbed  and  slew  instead  .  .  . 

So  quietly  and  evenly  they  walked 
These  million  gentle  dead. 


I04  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


TO :       MARGARET   SACKVILLE 

I. 


Was  it  for  you  the  aching  past  alone 
Lived,  that  on  you  might  fall  the  shadow  of  it? 
For  you,  for  you  kings  climbed  a  ravished  throne, 
And  all  these  menacing,  quenched  fires  were  lit. 
Wars  that  have  left  no  more  than  a  gray  trace, 
Where  are  they?    Scattered  foam,  blown  dust — ah, 

me! 
How  have  they  found  their  way  into  your  face? 
The  new  day  is  not  yours,  you  only  see 
A  battle  raging  in  a  desert  place. 
And  blood-stained  warriors  seeking  Sanctuary. 


I  cannot  love  you  in  the  street;  I  met 

You  in  the  street  once  and  turned  my  head  away, 

But  I  will  meet  you  where  the  red  sunset 

With  forlorn  fire  flashes  the  leaping  spray. 

We  are  too  old,  too  old  for  all  this  noise, 

No  wine  of  such  new  vintage  shall  control 

Us  who  have  knowTi,  what  passionate  joys 

Once  in  some  far,  dark  City  of  the  Soul. 

We  are  kings  still  and  have,  as  kings,  the  choice 

To  spurn  the  proffered  half  and  claim  the  whole. 


Margaret  Sackville  105 

3 

Let  us  find  out  a  new  way;  for  it  is  plain 

That  all  these  old,  worn,  trodden  roads  suffice 

Only  those  who  will  return  again 

Seeking  shelter  in  their  homes  from  Paradise. 

Oh!  let  us  find  some  solitary,  green 

Forgotten  garden,  where  the  sunrays  fall 

All  blind  and  blurred  and  indistinct  between 

Cypresses  lofty  as  earth's  boundary  wall; 

Beneath  whose  shade  shall  glimmer  forth  half  seen 

Your  face  through  the  soft  darkness  when  I  call. 

II. 

I 
If  one,  with  visionary  pen,  should  write 
The  love  which  might  be  ours,  how  would  he  call 
These  strange,  perplexing  fires  veiled  servants  light 
Down  the  dark  vistas  of  our  empty  hall? 
That  love  which  might  be  ours,  how  would  he  name 
That  love?    No  bitter  leaving  of  the  brine, 
No  white  or  fading  blossom  twined  like  flame 
Round  any  brow.  Christian  or  Erycine, 
Not  all  those  loves  blown  to  a  windy  fame 
Shall  find  their  counterpart  in  yours  and  mine. 

2 

Not  Tristram,  not  Isolde,  wild  shades  which  dip 
Their  pinions  like  blown  gulls  in  a  waste  sea, 
Nor  those  mute  lovers,  who  still,  lip  on  lip, 
Float  on  for  ever,  though  they  have  ceased  to  be, 
Not  any  of  those  who  loved  once; — far  apart 


io6  Margaret  Sackville 


We  wander;  the  years  have  made  us  weak,  we  fail 
To  rush  together  with  a  single  heart, 
And  we  shall  meet  at  last,  only  as  pale 
Autumnal  mists  no  sun's  shaft  cleaves  apart 
When  all  the  winds  are  still  and  no  ships  sail. 

III. 
I 

Yet  we  shall  meet— it  may  be  we  shall  meet 
And  count  our  days  up-gathered,  one  by  one. 
Like  poppies  plucked  among  the  burnished  wheat, 
Beneath  the  red  gaze  of  the  August  sun; 
And  all  our  scattered  dreams  shall  flutter  home 
At  last.    Oh!  silent,  age-long  wandering 
What  since  your  setting  forth  have  ye  become? 
What  gift  from  those  far  waters  do  ye  bring? — 
A  splash  of  rain,  salt  taste  of  frozen  foam, 
Green  sea-weed  trailing  from  a  broken  wing. 

2 

Or  we  shall  find  each  other — on  the  brink 
Of  sleep  some  day,  when  the  cool  evening  airs 
Blow    bubbles   round    the   pool    where   wood-birds 

drink; 
Or  in  the  common  Inn  of  wayfarers: 
Both  weary,  both  beside  the  wide  fireplace 
Drowsing,  till  at  some  sudden  spark  up-blown 
Shall  each  awake  to  find  there  face  to  face 
You  and  I  very  tired  and  alone; 
And  lo!  your  welcome  from  my  eyes  shall  gaze 
And  in  your  eyes  there  shall  I  find  my  own. 


Margaret  Sackville  107 

3 

I  will  pursue  thee  down  these  solitudes 

Therefore,  and  thou  shalt  yet  escape  me  not. 

I  will  set  traps  for  thee  of  subtle  moods 

And  wound  thee  with  the  arrows  of  my  thought. 

In  thickest  forest  ways  though  thou  lie  hid, 

Or  in  some  autumn  vale  of  Brocelinde, 

Or  in  whatever  place  of  magic  forbid, 

I  will  pierce  through  the  woven  branches  like  a 

wind, 
And  drag  thee  from  thy  hiding-place  amid 
The  secret  laughter  of  the  fairy-kind. 

4 

Oh,  triumph  still  delaying!     I  must  pass 

Lonely  a  long  time  yet,  for  I  know  well 

No  fugitive  fair  dream  that  ever  was 

Left  anywhere  traces  where  her  footprints  fell. 

I,  lonely  hunter  in  the  woods  of  sleep. 

The  hunt  is  up — away!     I  ride,  I  ride 

On  a  white  steed,  where  black-boughed  fir-trees  keep 

Watch  and  the  kindly  world  is  shut  outside. 

I  am  afraid,  the  haunted  woods  are  deep! 

I  am  afraid — afraid!     Where  dost  thou  hide? 


io8  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


FRUITAGE:    william  kean  seymour 

For  her  the  proud  stars  bend,  she  sees, 

As  never  yet,  dim  sorceries 

Breaking  in  silver  magic  wide 

On  the  blue  midnight's  swirling  tide, 

With  arrowy  mist  and  spearing  flame 

That  out  of  central  beauty  came. 

The  innumerate  splendors  of  the  skies 

Are  thronging  in  her  shining  eyes; 

Her  body  is  a  fount  of  light 

In  the  plumed  garden  of  the  night; 

Her  lily  breasts  have  known  the  bliss 

Of  the  cool  air's  unfaltering  kiss. 

She  is  made  one  with  loveliness, 

Enfranchised  from  the  world's  distress, 

Given  utterly  to  joy,  a  bride 

With  a  bride's  hunger  satisfied. 

Now,  though  she  heavily  walk,  and  know 

The  sharp  premonitory  throe 

And  the  life  leaping  in  the  gloom 

Of  her  most  blessed  and  chosen  womb. 

It  is  as  though  foot  never  was 

So  light  upon  the  glimmering  grass. 

She  is  shot  through  with  the  stars'  light, 

Helped  by  their  calm,  unwavering  might. 


PVilliam  Kean  Seymour  109 


In  tall,  lone-swaying  gravity 
Stoops  to  her  there  the  eternal  tree 
Whose  myriad  fruitage  ripens  on 
Beneath  the  light  of  moon  and  sun. 


no  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


IN  THE  WOOD:     william  kean  seymour 

Lone  shadows  move, 
The  night  air  stirs; 
This  hour  of  dying 
Dreams  was  hers. 

In  this  dusk  place 
Her  throat  gleamed  white 
In  glimmering  beauty 
Of  starlight. 

Nightingales  sang 
Exultant  bliss; 
The  snared  stars  saw  us 
Sway,  and  kiss. 

Now  the  bats  whirr, 
The  barn  owls  hoot, 
Her  loveliness 
Is  dust,  is  mute. 

Peace  comes  not  here, 
No  dream-bird  trills: 
They  haunt  her  lodging 
In  the  hills. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  iii 


SIESTA:     WILLIAM  kean  seymour 

Bring  me  some  oranges  on  blue  china, 
With  a  jade-and-silver  spoon, 

And  drowse  on  your  silken  mats  beside  me 
In  the  burning  noon. 

Bring  me  red  wine  in  cups  of  crystal. 
With  melons  on  chrysoprase. 

And  place  them  softly  with  jeweled  fingers 
Before  my  gaze. 

Hasten,  my  dove  of  scented  whisperings, 

My  lily,  my  Xacan! 
Bring  bubbling  pipes  for  the  cool  shadows, 

And  my  peacock  fan. 

And  bid  Isarrib,  my  chief  musician. 

Weave  quiet  songs  within, 
That  my  soul  in  the  circles  of  a  great  glamor 

May  float  and  spin. 

And  O,  you  gaudy  and  whistling  parrots 
In  your  high,  flowered  maze, 

Still  your  harsh,  petulant  quarreling 
With  the  mocking  jays. 


112  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


TO  ONE  WHO  EATS  LARKS:  william  kean  seymour 

Ah,  my  brave  VitelliusI 

Ah,  your  tastes  are  marvelous! 

When  you  eat  your  singing  birds 

Do  you  leave  the  bones — and  words, 

The  proud  music  in  the  throat?  .  .  . 

Not  a  note,  not  a  note? 

Doubtless  they  were  not  so  pleasant 

As  the  brains  of  a  young  pheasant, 

Or  flamingoes'  tongues,  vv^hose  duty 

Never  was  to  utter  beauty. 

But  they  sang,  but  they  fluted 

And  your  rasping  lies  confuted, 

And  your  ugliness  laid  bare 

With  a  lyric  in  the  air. 

So  you  bought  them  on  a  string. 

Dangling  balls  that  used  to  sing, 

And  you  gave  them  to  the  cook 

With  a  fat  and  happy  look. 

But  you  ask  me  why  this  fussl 
Ah,  my  brave  Vitellius, 
I  am  never  sure  your  stringers 
May  not  string  you  other  singers. 
May  not  tire  of  lark  and  wren 
And  attempt  to  sell  you  men. 
Please  forgive  me,  but  I've  made 
Certain  songs  .  .  .  and  I'm  afraid! 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  113 


IF  BEAUTY  CAME  TO  YOU:  william  kean  seymour 

If  Beauty  came  to  you, 

Ah,  would  you  know  her  grace, 

And  could  you  in  your  shadowed  prison  view 
Unscathed  her  face? 

Stepping  as  noiselessly 

As  moving  moth-wings,  so 
Might  she  come  suddenly  to  you  or  me 

And  we  not  know. 

Amid  these  clangs  and  cries, 

Alas,  how  should  we  hear 
The  shy,  dim-woven  music  of  her  sighs 

As  she  draws  near, 

Threading  through  monstrous,  black. 

Uncharitable  hours, 
Where  the  soul  shapes  its  own  abhorred  rack 

Of  wasted  powers? 


114  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


PRISON:      HORACE  SHIPP 


The  dreadful  days  go  up  and  up,  to  fall 

Through  twilight  to  the  sleepless  dusk  again, 

Like  tortured  flies  upon  a  window  pane. 

Wingless  or  broken-winged, 

They  crawl  and  crawl  .  .  . 

Meaningless,  striving — nowhere  after  all, 

Till  one  is  tired  of  heeding. 

Tired. 

A  stain  of  drab  unloveliness  the  days  remain 

Unmoving  now,  save  that  across  the  wall, 

A  patch  of  sun  behind  a  shadow  of  bars. 

Creeps  in  a  stupor. 

Grays, 

Grins  bloodily. 

Falters  and  dies. 


Outside  a  day  may  slip 

From  noon-glow  to  a  miracle  of  stars 

With  hours  that  flush  and  flood  eternity; 

Whilst  here 

The  stagnant  waters  drip  .  .  .  and  drip. 


Horace  Shipp  115 


II. 

They  tell  me  I  have  sinned;  that  long  ago 

(Weeks — or  a  cycle  of  eternity) 

This  thing  of  dead  desire  lived  lustily, 

Was  stirred  with  passion,  and  sinned. 

It  may  be  so; 

As  seas  or  hills  may  be. 

I  only  know  God's  world  has  shrunken, 

And  that  misery, 

Shrinking  my  heart,  has  closed  her  walls  on  me, 

Till  in  the  dead,  still  soul  the  senses  grow 

Carious  as  the  ulcer  of  thought  eats  deep. 

Heavy,  the  slow  lusts  pace  the  barren  mind 

From  end  to  end. 

Barred  door  and  window, 

Wall  inexorable. 

And    the   horrors   creep   on   padded    feet   like 

warders. 
Then  the  bhnd,  pitiful  night 
When  hot  tears  scald  and  fall. 

III. 

Gray  day-break  and  the  silence  of  the  cell: 

The  dull,  numb  pain  of  waking. 

Stillness  .  .  . 

Fear  clutching  oblivion; 

And  then  to  hear 

The  brazen,  blasphemous  tolling  of  the  bell, 

A  crash  of  doors. 


ii6  Horace  Shipp 

Loud-clanging  tins, 

The  swell  of  brutal  voices  nearer  and  more  near, 

Bursts  at  the  last  about  you. 

Clangor. 

Queer  delight  of  movement. 

Then  .  .  .  the  door  shuts. 

Hell  darkens  about  you  with  the  turning  key, 

The  silence  burns  and  sears  you  like  a  flame; 

It  battens  as  the  worm  that  never  dies; 

Crawls  back  from  distant  noises;  palpably 

Lurks  through  the  rhythm  of  the  feet  of  shame, 

Watching  and  watching  out  of  hooded  eyes. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  iiy 


THE  SIXTH  DAY:     Horace  shipp 

"Ajtd  God  said  'Let  us  make  man  in  our  image 
and  let  him  have  dominion'  .  .  ." 

God  made  you  in  His  image,  yet  I  saw 

You  stoop  and  seize  a  blind  mole  from  the  snare. 

Blind. 

Blind  with  terror  .  .  .  Blind 

Your  teeth  gleamed  bare  behind  the  taut,  white  lips. 

The  trapper's  law  knows  neither  hate  nor  love. 

You  watched  it  paw, 

Frantic  with  lust  of  life,  the  yielding  air 

And  were  amused. 

God's  Image! 

Did  you  care,  pitying  one  moment,  see  the  swift  hands 

claw 
For  life  and  darkness,  know  and  hate  your  trap? 
I  saw  your  knuckles  gleam,  your  hand  swing  free; 
A  cry; 
The  blind  face  crashed  against  the  wall. 

Then  death  and  stillness  and 

You  grinned. 

Mayhap, 

Snaring  the  blind  mole  of  humanity, 

God  made  you  in  His  image  after  all. 


ii8  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


EVENT  AIL:     edith  sit  well 


Lovely  Semiramis 

Closes  her  slanting  eyes: 

Dead  is  she  long  ago, 

From  her  fan  sliding  slow 

Parrot-bright  fire's  feathers 

Gilded  as  June  weathers, 

Plumes  like  the  greenest  grass 

Twinkle  down;  as  they  pass 

Through  the  green  glooms  in  Hell, 

Fruits  with  a  tuneful  smell — 

Grapes  like  an  emerald  rain 

Where  the  full  moon  has  lain, 

Greengages  bright  as  grass, 

Melons  as  cold  as  glass 

Piled  on  each  gilded  booth 

Feel  their  cheeks  growing  smooth; 

Apes  in  plumed  head-dresses 

Whence  the  bright  heat  hisses, 

Nubian  faces  sly. 

Pursing  mouth,  slanting  eye, 

Feel  the  Arabian 

Winds  floating  from  that  fan: 

See  how  each  gilded  face 

Paler  grows,  nods  apace: 

"Oh,  the  fan's  blowing 

Cold  winds  ...  It  is  snowing!" 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  119 


THE  LADY  WITH  THE  SEWING-MACHINE: 

EDITH   SITWELL 

Across  the  fields  as  green  as  spinach, 
Cropped  as  close  as  Time  to  Greenwich, 

Stands  a  high  house;  if  at  all. 
Spring  comes  like  a  Paisley  shawl — 

Patternings  meticulous 
And  youthfully  ridiculous. 

In  each  room  the  yellow  sun 
Shakes  like  a  canary,  run 

On  run,  roulade,  and  watery  trill — 
Yellow,  meaningless,  and  shrill. 

Face  as  white  as  any  clock's. 

Cased  in  parsley-dark  curled  locks — 

All  day  long  you  sit  and  sew, 
Stitch  life  down  for  fear  it  grow, 

Stitch  life  down  for  fear  we  guess 
At  the  hidden  ugliness. 


I20  Edith  Sitwell 


Dusty  voice  that  throbs  with  heat, 
Hoping  with  your  steel-thin  beat 

To  put  stitches  in  my  mind, 
Make  it  tidy,  make  it  kind. 

You  shall  not:     I'll  keep  it  free 
Though  you  turn  earth,  sky  and  sea 

To  a  patchwork  quilt  to  keep 
Your  mind  snug  and  warm  in  sleep! 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  121 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  BARMAID:    edith  sitwell 

Metallic  waves  of  people  jar 

Through  crackling  green  toward  the  bar 

Where  on  the  tables  chattering-white 
The  sharp  drinks  quarrel  with  the  light. 

Those  colored  muslin  blinds  the  smiles, 
Shroud  wooden  faces  in  their  wiles — 

Sometimes  they  splash  like  water  (you 
Yourself  reflected  in  their  hue). 

The  conversation  loud  and  bright 
Seems  spinal  bars  of  shunting  light 

In  firework-spurting  greenery. 
0  complicate  machinery 

For  building  Babel,  iron  crane 

Beneath  your  hair,  that  blue-ribbed  mane 

In  noise  and  murder  like  the  sea 
Without  its  mutability  1 


122  Edith  Sitwell 


Outside  the  bar  where  jangling  heat 
Seems  out  of  tune  and  off  the  beat — 

A  concertina's  glycerine 
Exudes,  and  mirrors  in  the  green 

Your  soul:  pure  glucose  edged  with  hints 
Of  tentative  and  half-soiled  tints. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  123 


SOLO  FOR  EAR-TRUMPET:     edith  sitwell 

The  carriage  brushes  through  the  bright 
Leaves  (violent  jets  from  life  to  light) ; 
Strong  polished  speed  is  plunging,  heaves 
Between  the  showers  of  bright  hot  leaves 
The  window-glasses  glaze  our  faces 
And  jar  them  to  the  very  basis — 
But  they  could  never  put  a  polish 
Upon  my  manners  or  abolish 
My  most  distinct  disinclination 
For  calling  on  a  rich  relation! 
In  her  house — (bulwark  built  between 
The  life  man  lives  and  visions  seen) — 
The  sunlight  hiccups  white  as  chalk, 
Grown  drunk  with  emptiness  of  talk, 
And  silence  hisses  like  a  snake — 
Invertebrate  and  rattling  ache.  .  .  . 
Then  suddenly  Eternity 
Drowns  all  the  houses  like  a  sea 
And  down  the  street  the  Trump  of  Doom 
Blares  madly — shakes  the  drawing-room 
Where  raw-edged  shadows  sting  forlorn 
As  dank  dark  nettles.    Down  the  horn 
Of  her  ear-trumpet  I  convey 
The  news  that  ''It  is  Judgment  Day!" 


124  Edith  Sitwell 


"Speak  louder:     I  don't  catch,  my  dear." 
I  roared:     "//  is  the  Trump  we  hearl" 
"The  What?"     "THE  TRUMP!"  "I  shall  com- 
plain! 
.  .  .  the  boy-scouts  practising  again." 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  125 


THE  FATHER:     mueiel  stuart 

The  evening  found  us  whom  the  day  had  fled, 

Once  more  in  bitter  anger,  you  and  I, 

Over  some  small,  some  foolish,  trivial  thing 

Our  anger  would  not  decently  let  die, 

But  dragged  between  us,  shamed  and  shivering 

Until  each  other's  taunts  we  scarcely  heard, 

Until  we  lost  the  sense  of  all  we  said. 

And  knew  not  who  first  spoke  the  fatal  word. 

It  seemed  that  even  every  kiss  we  wrung 

We  killed  at  birth  with  shuddering  and  hate. 

As  if  we  feared  a  thing  too  passionate. 

However  close  we  clung 

One  hour  the  next  hour  found  us  separate, 

Estranged,  and  Love  most  bitter  on  our  tongue. 

To-night  we  quarreled  over  one  small  head, 
Our  fruit  of  last  year's  maying,  the  white  bud 
Blown  from  our  stormy  kisses  and  the  dead 
First  rapture  of  our  wild,  estranging  blood. 
You  clutched  him:  there  was  panther  in  your  eyes. 
We  breathed  like  beasts  in  thickets,  on  the  wall 
Our  shadows  in  huge  challenge  seemed  to  rise. 
The  room  grew  dark  with  anger.     Yet  through  all 
The  shame  and  hurt  and  pity  of  it  you  were 


126  Muriel  Stuart 


Still  strangely  and  imperishably  dear, 

As  one  who  loves  the  wild  day  none  the  less 

That  breaks  in  bitter  hands  the  buds  of  Spring, 

Whose  cold  hand  stops  the  breath  of  loveliness, 

And  drives  the  wailing  ghost  of  beauty  past, 

Making  the  rose, — even  the  rose,  a  thing 

For  pain  to  be  remembered  by  at  last. 

I  said:     "My  son  shall  wear  his  father's  sword." 

You  said:     "Shall  hands  once  blossoms  at  my  breast 

Be  stained  with  blood?"    I  answered  with  a  word 

More  bitter,  and  your  own,  the  bitterest 

Stung  me  to  sullen  anger,  and  I  said: 

"My  son  shall  be  no  coward  of  his  line 

Because  his  mother  choose";  you  turned  your  head 

And  your  eyes  grew  implacable  in  mine. 

And  like  a  trodden  snake  you  turned  to  meet 

The  foe  with  sudden  hissing  .  .  .  then  you  smiled, 

And  broke  our  life  in  pieces  at  my  feet, 

"Your  child?"  you  said:     "Your  child?" 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  127 


THE  SHORE:    muriel  stuart 

The  low  bay  melts  into  a  ring  of  silver, 
And  slips  it  on  the  shore's  reluctant  finger 
Though  in  an  hour  the  tide  will  turn,  will  tremble, 
Forsaking  her  because  the  moon  persuades  him. 
But  the  black  wood  that  leans  and  sighs  above  her 
No  tide  can  turn,  no  moon  can  slave  nor  summon. 
Then  comes  the  dark:   on  sleepy,  shell-strewn  beaches. 
O'er  long  pale  leagues  of  sand  and  cold,  clear  water 
She  hears  the  tide  go  out  towards  the  moonlight. 
The   wood   still   leans  .  .  .  weeping  she   turns  to  seek 

him, 
And  his  black  hair  all  night  is  on  her  bosom. 


128  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THELUS  WOOD:     muriel  stuart 

I  CAME  by  night  to  Thelus  wood, 

And  though  in  dark  and  desperate  places 

Stubborned  with  wire  and  brown  with  blood 

Undaunted  April  crept  and  sewed 

Her  violets  in  dead  men's  faces, 

And  in  a  soft  and  snowy  shroud 

Drew  the  scarred  fields  with  gentle  stitch; 

Though  in  the  valley  where  the  ditch 

Was  hoarse  with  nettles,  blind  with  mud, 

She  stroked  the  golden-headed  bud. 

And  loosed  the  fern,  she  dared  not  here 

To  touch  nor  tend  this  murdered  thing; 

The  wind  went  wide  of  it,  the  year 

Upon  this  breast  stopped  short  of  Spring: 

Beauty  turned  back  from  Thelus  Wood. 

From  broken  brows  the  dim  eyes  stared, 
Blistered  and  maimed  the  wide  stumps  grinned 
From  the  black  mouth  of  Thelus  bared 
In  laughter  at  some  monstrous  jest. 
No  creature  moved  there,  weed  nor  wind. 
Huge  arms,  half-torn  from  savage  breast, 
Hung  wide,  and  tangled  limbs  and  faces 
Lay,  as  if  giants  blind  and  stark 
With  violent,  with  perverse  embraces 


Muriel  Stuart  129 


Groped  for  each  other  in  the  dark. 
A  moaning  rose — not  of  the  wind, 
— There  was  no  wind,  but  hollowly 
From  its  dim  bed  of  mud  each  tree 
Gave  forth  a  sound,  till  trees  and  mud 
Seemed  but  a  single,  sighing  mouth, 
A  wound  that  spoke  with  lips  uncouth, 
And  cried  to  me  from  Thelus  Wood. 

I  heard  one  tree  say:     "This  was  I 
Who  drew  great  clouds  across  the  sky 
To  weep  against  me."    This  one  said: 
*T  made  a  gloom  where  love  might  lie 
All  day  and  dream  it  night,  a  bed 
Secret  and  soft,  the  birds'  song  had 
A  twilight  sound  the  whole  day  there." 
One  said:     "Last  night  I  shook  my  hair 
Before  the  mirror  of  the  moon." 
"I  saw  a  corpse  to-day,"  said  one 
"That  was  but  buried  yester-year." 
And  one,  the  smallest,  sweetest  thing— 
A  fair  child-tree  made  never  stir, 
Dead  before  God  had  tended  her 
In  the  green  nurseries  of  Spring. 
She  lay,  the  loveliest,  loneliest, 
Among  the  old  and  ruined  trees, 
And  at  each  small  and  broken  wrist 
The  M'hite  flowers  grew  like  bandages. 

Then  from  the  ruined  churchyard  where 
Old  vaults  and  graves  lay  turned  and  tossed 
And  earth  from  earth  was  shaken  bare, 


130  Muriel  Stuart 

Came  murmurings  of  a  tongueless  host 

That  to  each  ghastly  brother  said: 

"Who  raised  us  from  our  sleep?    Is  this 

The  resurrection  of  the  dead? 

Upon  our  bodies  no  flesh  grows, 

No  bright  blood  through  our  temples  springs, 

No  glory  spreads,  no  trumpet  blows. 

The  air  is  not  white  and  blind  with  wings. 

And  yet  dragged  up  before  us  lie 

The  woods  of  Thelus  at  our  feet. 

And  strange  hills  sentinel  the  sky. 

And  where  the  road  went  yawns  a  pit. 

The  world  is  finished:  let  us  sleep. 

God  has  forgotten:  we  shall  keep 

Here  a  sweet,  safe  Eternity. 

There  is  no  other  end  than  this, 

And  this  is  death,  and  that  is  peace." 

But  even  as  they  ceased  the  stones 

Were  loosed,  the  earth  shook  where  I  stood, 

And  from  far  off  the  crouching  guns 

Swung  slowly  round  on  Thelus  Wood. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  131 


THE  THIEF  OF  BEAUTY:     muriel  stuart 

I. 

The  mind  is  Beauty's  thief,  the  poet  takes 
The  golden  spendthrift's  trail  among  the  blooms 
Where  she  stands  tossing  silver  in  the  lakes, 
And  twisting  bright  swift  threads  on  airy  looms. 
Her  ring  the  poppy  snatches,  and  the  rose 
With  laughter  plunders  all  her  gusty  plumes. 
The  poet  gleans  and  gathers  as  she  goes 
Heedless  of  summer's  end  certain  and  soon. 
Of  winter  rattling  at  the  door  of  June. 

II. 

When  Beauty  lies  hand- folded,  pale  and  still, 
Forsaken  of  her  lovers  and  her  lords, 
And  winter  keeps  cold  watch  upon  the  hill. 
Then  he  lets  fall  his  bale  of  colored  words. 
At  frosty  midnight  June  shall  rise  in  flame. 
Move  at  his  magic  with  her  bells  and  birds, 
The  rose  will  redden  as  he  speaks  her  name. 
He  shall  release  earth's  frozen  bosom  there. 
And  with  great  words  shall  cuff  the  whining  air. 


132  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  HIGH  WALL:     w.  r.  titterton 

I  WILL  build  up  a  wall  for  Freedom  to  dwell  therein, 

A  high  wall  with  towers 

And  steel  fangs  for  a  gate. 

For  Freedom  that  lacks  a  home  falleth  by  pit  and  gin, 

A  prey  to  the  alien  powers 

That  lie  in  wait. 

I  will  build  up  a  house  for  her  where  the  ways  divide, 

A  house  set  on  a  hill, 

With  a  lamp  in  the  topmost  tower. 

And  a  trumpet  calling  to  arms,  and  a  flag  like  a  flame 

blown  wide. 
And  a  sword  to  save  and  to  kill 
As  her  bridal  dower. 

I  will  take  her  to  wife,  she  that  is  life  and  death; 

Life — for  a  trumpet  calls; 

Death — for  it  calls  me  still, 

And  I  shall  know  love — a  star,  and  a  fluttering  breath 

Till  the  shadow  of  silence  falls 

In  the  house  on  the  hill. 

I  will  build  up  a  house  for  her  where  the  ways  divide, 
Four-square  on  the  rock, 
A  high  house  and  a  great; 


W.  R.  Titterton  133 


So,  when  I  fly,  spent,  back  from  a  broken  ride, 
Her  key  shall  cry  in  the  lock, 
She  shall  stand  in  the  gate. 

She  shall  stand  in  the  gate — the  prize  of  the  world  to 

win. 
Stand  steel-shod, 

Crowned  with  a  cloud  of  flowers. 
I  will  build  up  a  wall,  a  wall,  for  Freedom  to  dwell 

therein 
In  the  name  of  the  most  high  God, 
A  wall  with  towers. 


134  ^  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


THE  BROKEN  SWORD:     w.  r.  titterton 

Soldier,  soldier,  burnishing  your  sword, 

Is  there  no  place  for  a  wayfaring  man  in  the  courts  of 

your  lord? 
A  couch,  and  a  crust,  and  a  song,  and  a  flagon  of  wine? 
Haggard,  begrimed  though  I  be,  and  out  at  heel, 
A  lean,  gray  hop-and-go-one  with  a  crutch  of  steel, 
Brother-at-arms  with  death?     Behold  the  sign: 

I  have  tasted  great  weather  on  high,  white,  green-tur- 

reted  cliffs  by  the  sea. 
I  have  tramped  the  tough  heather,  the  purple,  the  brown, 
By  pools  of  peat  water;  from  the  night  to  the  day, 
Till  the  moon  has  dropped  down:  the  ghost  of  a  minim, 

low  down, 
In  a  high-piping  treble  of  gray. 

In  shy,  dim  recesses,  mid  tresses,  green  tresses. 

Slow  dipping,  caressing,  I've  heard 

A  whisper,  a  chuckle  of  laughter,  a  scamper ;  and  high, 

High  up  in  the  air  the  cry,  the  call  of  a  bird. 

And  when  the  night  came  with  a  flicker  of  wings 

I  have  heard  the  earth  breathing  quiet  and  slow 

Like  a  pulse  in  the  tiny,  wild  tumult  of  things. 


W.  R.  Titterton  135 

I  have  sung  to  the  sun,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars, 

In  valleys  uncharted  of  tumbled  sea  meadows 

I  have  shouted  aloud  'neath  a  sky  whipped  to  smoke  in 

the  fret  of  my  spars 
And  I  fought  as  I  fared;  and  my  couch  was  a  camp; 

and  my  songs  were  my  scars. 

Soldier!      Soldier!     Cosetting  your  sword! 

Have  you  no  place  for  a  harper-at-arms  in  the  courts  of 

your  lord — 
Prim   fountains,   clipped   trees,   and   trim   gardens,   and 

music,  and  rest? 
Nay,  keep  your  sugared   delights   and  your   margents 

embroidered!     My  life  is  the  best. 
In  my  ears  is  the  sound  of  a  bugle  blown,  and  my  pulses 

like  kettie-drums  beat 
For  the  hungry   blind  onset,   the   rally,   the  stubborn 

defeat. 
I,  too,  could  have  polished,  and  polished,  and  jeered  at 

the  wayfaring  man  who  passed  by. 
But  I  follow  the  fighting  Apollo. 
And  I  stand  unashamed;  and  I  raise  up  my  shard  of  a 

sword;  and  I  cry  the  old  cry. 
Please  God  they  shall  find  but  a  hilt  in  my  hand  when  I 

die! 


136 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


NIGHT-SHAPES:     w.  r.  titterton 

Dark  hurrying  shapes  beset  my  path  that  night- 
Pushing  and  buffeting;  and  in  my  brain 
Dark  hurrying  shapes  beset  my  soul.    In  vain 
I  struggled;  as  a  fevered  dreamer  might; 
Or  some  spent,  breathless  swimmer,  in  despite 
Of  desperate  stroke,  thrust  headlong  to  the  main. 
The  waking  nightmare,  monstrous  and  inane. 
Whirled,  rushed,  and  huddled  in  its  random  flight. 

Like  a  spent  swimmer,  battling  with  a  swoon, 
Silent  I  fought,  yet  seemed  to  cry  aloud. 
When,  at  the  challenge  of  a  marching  tune, 
Heard  in  a  sudden  stillness  of  the  crowd, 
I  looked  aloft,  and  saw  the  great  round  moon 
Steadfast  behind  her  ragged  rout  of  cloud. 


nrtxx^ 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  137 


THE  SILENT  PEOPLE:    w.  r.  titterton 

The  Silent  People  of  No  Man's  Land 

Calm  they  lie, 

With  a  stare  and  vacant  smile 

At  the  vacant  sky. 

Over  them  swept  the  battle, 

And  stirred  them  not. 

Armies  passed  over,  beyond  them. 

They  are  forgot. 

Calmly  the  earth  deals  with  them, 

Melts  them  away. 

Nothing  is  left  of  them  now  but  bones. 

Bones  and  clay. 

Bones  of  the  Valley  of  Judgment, 

Bones  stripped  clean. 

We  fought,  day  in,  day  out,  and  the  others. 

With  this  between. 

Dawn  comes  white  and  finds  them 

Stark  and  cold. 

Twilight  creeps  over  and  covers  them. 

Fold  on  fold. 

Night  cannot  hide  them  from  us. 

In  the  dark,  again. 

We  see  the  Silent  People 

Who  once  were  men. 


138  W.  R.  Titterton 

The  Silent  People  of  No  Man's  Land, 

They  rise,  they  rise, 

With  the  glory  of  utter  loss 

In  their  stary  eyes. 

Beckoning,  beckoning,  calling, 

Pointing  the  way. 

But  the  dawn  comes  white,  and  finds  them 

Bones  and  clay. 

Winds  of  the  world  blow  o'er  them 

Your  serenade! 

Touch  like  a  lute  the  broken  earth 

Where  our  dead  are  laid  I 

Broken  bones  of  the  martyrs, 

Reliques  of  pain. 

Anoint  them,  anoint  them  with  sunlight. 

Robe  them  in  rain. 

The  Silent  People  of  No  Man's  Land 

Calm  they  lie. 

Bones,  broken  and  bleached, 

Under  the  sky. 

Over  them  sweeps  the  tempest. 

And  stirs  them  not. 

We  pass  over,  beyond  them. 

They  are  forgot. 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  139 


LAMPS  AND  LANTERNS:    e.  h.  visiak 

When  I  had  sight,  great  glamor  was 
In  myriad  lamps  of  colored  glass: 
Old  lamps  for  new  I  never  sold; 
For  old  were  new,  and  new  were  old. 

And  Chinese  lanterns,  paper  globes, 
Were  Dragon  Gods  in  tissue  robes 
That  stood  on  air  with  squat  round  shoon, 
Beneath  the  thin,  receded  Moon. 


140  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


STRANDED:     e.  h.  visiak 

Dusk  gathers.    On  the  seaward  hedge 
The  wild  hops,  hanging  bright, 
Gleam  as  a  foam-spray  flung  on  sedge 
From  a  sea  of  golden  light. 

A  ship  lies  heavy  on  the  sands 
Above  the  warped,  wan  tide, 
Whose  waves  thrust  ineffectual  hands 
Beneath  its  murmuring  side. 

They  cannot  lift  the  monstrous  hulk, 
Nor  break  the  ghostly  spell; 
The  ship  lies  dreaming,  all  her  bulk 
Racked  on  a  shoal  of  hell, 

I  hear  the  sullen  timbers  creak. 
With  echoings  deep  and  numb; 
No  other  sound:  nor  groan  nor  shriek; 
For  agony  is  dumb! 

But  at  the  seams,  in  every  crack, 

A  beaded  sweat  appears: 

The  soul  that's  stretched  on  such  a  rack 

Can  shed  no  other  tears! 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  141 


RUBBLE:    alec  waugh 


We  may  fill  the  daytime  with  friendship 

And  laughter  and  song; 
But  however  the  laughter  may  trip 

And  the  words  break  in  song 
On  a  loved  one's  lip; 
And  however  gaily  the  road  may  bend 

Into  the  sky, 
It  must  come  to  this  in  the  end, 

That  we  stand 
And  watch  the  last  friend 

Turn  with  a  half-felt  sigh 
And  a  wave  of  the  hand; 
And  silence  is  over  the  day, 

Shadows  fall. 
And  our  happiness  crumbles  away 

Like  a  wall 
That  nobody  cares  for, 

That  falls  stone  by  stone. 
Till  its  grandeur  is  rubble  once  more. 
And  we  are  alone. 


142  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry 


CHRISTMAS:     charles  williams 

Word  through  the  world  went 

On  Christmas  morn, — 
"Tidings!  behold,  a 

Townsman  is  born!" 
Then  in  their  council 

Smiled  the  high  lords: 
"Sword  for  world-conquest 

'Mid  a  world's  swords. 
Need  shall  our  armies 

Have  of  each  birth. 
In  that  last  battle 

Wins  us  the  earth." 

Still  were  the  priesthood. 

Singing  the  Mass: 
"Lo,  is  our  creed  come 

Truly  to  pass? 
Blessed  and  broken 

Crumbs  that  we  give. 
Say!  say,  O  chalice. 

Can  a  creed  live?" 

Then  to  lord  Shakespeare, 
Brooding  alone, 

While  in  a  vision 
Lear  was  shown. 


Charles  Williams  143 

While  his  just  loathing 

Hung  over  men, 
Lo,  from  the  darkness 

Came  Imogen. 

Then  said  a  free  maid, 

Heart  against  mine, — 
"Take  me,  lord  governor, 

Who  am  all  thine! 
Thou  that  hast  blessed  me 

With  a  new  light. 
Ah,  is  thy  handmaid 

Fair  in  thy  sight?" 

Then  said  our  Lady, — 

''Clean  is  the  hut, 
Filled  are  the  platters. 

And  the  door  shut. 
Sit,  O  son  Jesus! 

Sit  thou,  sweet  friend! 
Poor  folk  have  supper 

And  their  woes  end." 
"Now,"  said  our  Father, 

"All  things  are  won: 
Welcome,  O  Saviour! 

Welcome,  O  Son! 
More  than  creation 

Lives  now  again, 
God  hath  borne  Godhead 

Nowise  in  vain." 


144  Charles  Williams 

Word  went  through  Sarras 
On  Easter  morn, — 

"Tidings!  behold  a 

Townsman  is  boml" 


A  Miscellany  of  Poetry  145 


BRISEIS:      CHARLES  williams 

The  footfalls  of  the  parting  Myrmidons 

And  counter-cries  of  leaguer  and  of  town 
Are  hushed  behind  her  as  the  silks  drop  down; 

Alone  she  stands,  and  wonderingly  cons 

Heads  circleted  with  gold  or  helmed  with  bronze; 
Higher  her  eyes  from  crown  to  loftier  crown 
Creep,  till  they  fall,  nigh-blasted,  at  the  frown 

Of  Argos,  throned  in  his  pavilions 

And  mid  his  captains  wrathfully  aware 

How  the  plague  smites  the  host,  how  by  the  sea 

Beyond  the  ships,  with  vengeful  prayer  and  oath. 

Rages  the  young  Achilles,  of  whose  wrath 
Innocent,  ignorant,  captive,  she 

Sees  but  the  dropped  staff  on  the  voided  chair. 


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